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THE WORKS OF TENNYSON 



^ -TIT/ 



THE ^i^ I- Gi 

WORKS OF TENNYSON 

// 
WITH NOTES BY THE AUTHOR 



EDITED WITH MEMOIR / 

BY 

HALLAM, LORD TENNYSON 



MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED 

ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 

1913 



55 






CO rVKlOHT 



<r^n A int I 7 1 !2 




Tcxl ^cjinu. 



y-ori 



pyrin thrj^jirturebi^Q.S^XCt^aUo ^ .^yt . 
at JT-init-u Crc{Teac.C'>cvmh-riclac 



CONTENTS 



Ijfe and Work 
Tennyson 



OF Alfred Lord 



To THE Queen i 

Notes 895 

Juvenilia 2 

Claribel 2 

Notes 895 

Nothing will Die ^2 

Notes 895 

All Things will Die 3 

Notes 896 

Leonine Elegiacs 3 

Notes 896 

Supposed Confessions of a Second-rate 

Sensitive Mind 3 

Notes 896 

The Kraken 6 

Notes 896 

Song 6 

Lilian ....... 6 

Notes 896 

Isabel 6 

Notes 896 

Mariana ....... 7 

Notes 896 

To 8 

Notes 896 

Madeline 8 

Notes 897 

Song — The Owl ..... 9 

Notes 897 

Second Song — To the Same ... 9 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights . 9 

Notes 897 

Ode to Memory 11 

Notes 897 

Song 13 

Notes 898 

A Character 13 

Notes 898 

The Poet 13 

Notes 898 

The Poet's Mind 14 

Notes 8q8 



PAGE 

Juvenilia {cotitinucd) — 

The Sea-Fairies ..... 15 

Notes 898 

The Deserted House .... 15 

Notes 898 

The Dying Swan . .... 16 

Notes 898 

A Dirge 16 

Notes 899 

Love and Death . . . . • 17 

Notes 899 

The Ballad of Oriana .... 17 

Notes ....... 899 

Circumstance ...... 18 

Notes . . . . . . . 899 

The Merman . . . . . -19 

Notes 899 

The Mermaid ... , . . 19 

Notes 899 

Adeline . . . ... .20 

Notes 899 

Margaret . - 21 

Notes 899 

Rosalind 22 

Notes 899 

Eleanore . . . . . . .22 

Notes 899 

Kate . .... . . -24 

' My life is full of weary days ' . . 24 

Notes ....... 900 

' When in the darkness over me ' . -25 

Notes ....... 90 

Early Sonnets 2-: 

1. Sonnet to 2s 

Notes ...... 90: 

2. Sonnet to J. M. K 25 

Notes 900 

3. * Mine be the strength of spirit ' . 25 

4. Alexander ..... 26 

Notes 900 

5. Buonaparte 26 

Notes 900 

6. Poland 26 

Notes 900 

7. ' Caress'd or chidden ' . . .26 

Notes 900 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Juvenilia— Early Sonnets {continued)— 

8. ' The form, the form alone is eloquent ' 27 

Notes 900 

9. ' Wan sculptor, weepest thou ' . . 27 

Notes ...... 900 

ID. ' If I were loved, as I desire to be ' . 27 

Notes ...... goo 

II. The Bridesmaid . . 27 

Notes 900 

The Lady of Shalott, and other Poems : 

^J^& Lady of Shalott .... 28 

Notes 901 

Mariana in the South .... 30 

i. Notes 901 

s^fThe Two Voices 31 

Notes 901 

The Miller's Daughter .... 36 

Notes .... ... 902 

Fatima 39 

Notes 903 

QEnone 40 

Notes 903 

The Sisters ...... 44 

Notes ....... 904 

To 44 

The Palace of Art 44 

Notes ....... 904 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere .... 49 

Notes 907 

The May Queen 50 



Notes , 



.. New Year's Eve 5: 

Notes 907 

Conclusion 52 

Notes 907 

The Lotos-Eaters 54 

Notes 907 

Choric Song 54 

Notes 907 

A Dream of Fair Women .... 56 

Notes ....... 908 

The Blackbird ...... 61 

Notes 910 

The Death of the Old Year ... 62 

Notes 910 

To J. S 62 

Notes 910 

On a Mourner 63 

Notes 911 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease ' . 

Notes 

' Of old sat Freedom on the heights 

Notes 

' Love thou thy land ' 

Notes ... 



64 
911 

64 
911 

64 
911 



The Lady of Shalott, etc. icontinuei{)- 
England and America in 1782 . 

Notes 

The Goose ...... 

Notes 



66 



66 
911 



English Idyls and other Poems : 

The Epic 67 

Notes 911 

Morte d'Arthur 68,^ 

Notes 912 

The Gardener's Daughter ; or, the Pictures 72 

Notes 913 

Dora 77 

Notes 914 

Audley Court 

Notes 

Walking to the Mail 



79 

914 

81 



Notes ....... 914 



Edwin Morris ; or, the Lake 

Notes 



83 
914 



St. Simeon Stylites 85 

Notes 914 

The Talking Oak 83 

Notes 914 

Love and Duty ..... 92 

Notes 915 

The Golden Year ..... 94 



Notes 
'• Ulysses 

Notes 
Tithonus 
Notes 



9O7^**i»0ck.sley Hall 



9TS 

95 

915 

96 

916 

98 

Notes 916 

Godiva 103 

Notes . 917 

The Day-Dream 104 

Notes 918 

Prologue 104 

The Sleeping Palace .... 104 

The Sleeping Beauty ... 105 

The Arrival ...... 106 

The Revival 106 

Notes 918 

The Departure 107 

Notes 918 

Moral 107 

L'Envoi .... . . 107 

Notes 918 

Epilogue 108 

Notes 918 

Amphion ....... 108 

Notes 918 

St. Agnes' Eve 109 

Notes 918 

Sir Galahad no 

Notes 918 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Edward Gray in 

Notes 918 

Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue . in 

Notes 918 

Lady Clare 114 

Notes ....... 919 

The Captain 115 

Notes ....... 919 

The Lord of Burleigh 116 

Notes 919 

The Voyage 117 

Notes 920 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere . .118 

Notes 920 

A Farewell . . . . . . .119 

Notes ....... 920 

The Beggar Maid 119 

Notes 920 

The Eagle 119 

Notes . 920 

'Move eastward, happy earth, and leave' . 119 

Notes 920 

' Come not, when I am dead ' . . . 119 

Notes 920 

The Letters 120 

Notes ....... 920 

'The Vision of Sin 120 

Notes 920 

To , after reading a Life and Letters . 123 

Notes 921 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece . .124 

Notes . . . . . . .921 

' Break, break, break ' . . . . . 124 

Notes ....... 921 

The Poet's Song 124 

Notes 921 

Enoch Arden, and other Poems : 

Enoch Arden ...... 125 

Notes ....... 921 

The Brook 139 

Notes 922 

Aylmer's Field 142 

Notes ....... 922 

Sea Dreams ...... 156 

Notes . . . ■ . . . . 924 

Lucretius i6i 

Notes 924 

The Princess ; a Medley . . .165 
Notes 925 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 218 
Notes .935 

The Third of February, 1852 . . .221 
Notes 5,36 

The Charge of the Light Bris^ade . . 222 
Notes . . , / . . .537 



PAGE 

Ode sung at the Opening of the International 

Exhibition 223 

Notes 937 

A Welcome to Alexandra .... 223 

Notes 937 

A Welcome to Her Royal Highness Marie 

Alexandrovna, Duchess of Edinburgh . 224 

Notes 937 



The Grandmother 

Notes 
Northern Farmer. 

Notes 
Northern Farmer. 

Notes 
The Daisy . 



Old Style 



New Style 



225 
938 
228 



938 
233 



Notes 938 



To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 

Notes . . . . 
Will 

Notes . . . . 
In the Valley of Cauteretz . 

Notes , . . . 
In the Garden at Swainston 

Notes . . . . 
The Flower .... 

Notes . . . . 
Requiescat .... 

Notes . . . . 



• 234 

• 938 

• 235 

• 938 
. 23s 

• . 938 

• 235 
. 938 

• 235 
. . 938 

. 236 

. 939 

The Sailor Boy ...... 236 

Notes 939 

The Islet 236 

Notes 939 

Child-Songs ....... 237 



Notes 



939 



1. The City Child 237 

Notes . . . . . .939 

2. Minnie and Winnie .... 237 

Notes 939 

The Spiteful Letter 237 

Notes 939 

Literary Squabbles 237 

Notes 939 

The Victim 238 

Notes 939 

Wages 239 

Notes . . _ 939 

rvThe Higher Pantheism .... 239 

Notes 939 

>i£rhe Voice and the Peak .... 240 

Notes 939 

' Flower in the crannied wall "... 240 

Notes 939 

A Dedication 240 

Notes 939 

Experiments : 

-- Boadicea 241 

Notes 939 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Experiments {continued)— 

In Quantity 243 

Notes ....... 940 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in 

Blank Verse 243 

Notes ...... 941 

The Window; or, the Song of the Wrens : 

The Window ...... 244 

Notes 941 

On the Hill 244 

At the Window ...... 244 

Gone 245 

Winter 245 

Spring 245 

The Letter ...... 245 

No Answer ...... 245 

The Answer ...... 246 

Ay 246 

When , . . 246 

Marriage Morning ..... 246 

In Memoriam A. H. H 247 

Notes 941 

Maud, a Monodkama .... 286 

Notes 956 

Idylls of the King. In Twelve Books: 

Dedication 308 

^ ^. 'Notes 961 

'""The Coming of Arthur .... 309 

Notes 962 

The Round Tahle 317 

''Notes ...... 964 

It/Gareth and Lynette .... 317 

Notes 964 

,JL^ The Marriage of Geraint . . . 341 

' Notes 967 

^!*Geraint and Enid 354 

Notes 969 

Balin and Balan ..... 369 

Notes 970 

Merlin and Vivien . \ . . 380 

Notes 971 

Lancelot and Elaine .... 395 

Notes 972 

The Holy Grail 418 

Notes 973 

Pelleas and Ettarre .... 433 

Notes 977 

The Last Tournament . . • . . 443 

Notes 977 

""^Guinevere 456 

\i Notes 979 

The Passing of Arthur .... 467 

Notes 980 

To the Queen 474 

Notes 981 



page 

The Lover's Tale 476 

Notes 981 

To Alfred Tennyson, mv Grandson . 499 

Ballads and other Poems : 

The First Quarrel ..... 499 

Notes 982 

Rizpah 501 

Notes 982 

The Northern Cobbler .... 504 

Notes 982 

The Revenge : A Ballad of the Fleet . 507 

Notes 982 

The Sisters 509 

Notes 983 

The Village Wife ; or, the Entail . . 514 

Notes 984 

In the Children's Hospital . . . 517 

Notes 984 

Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice . 518 

Notes 984 

The Defence of Lucknow . . . 519 

Notes 984 

Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham . . 521 

Notes 984 

Columbus ....... 525 

Notes 985 

The Voyage of Maeldune . . . 529 

Notes . . . .. . -985 

De Profundis : 

The Two Greetings .... 532 

Notes 986 

The Human Cry 53; 

Notes 988 

Sonnets : 
Prefatory Sonnet to the ' Nineteenth 

Century' 53: 

Notes 98S 

To the Rev. W. H. Brookfield . . 53; 

Notes 98^ 

Montenegro 53; 

Notes 98f 

To Victor Hugo 53- 

Notes 9S( 

Translations, etc. : 

Battle of Erunanburh . . . -53' 

Notes 98( 

Achilles over the Trench . . . • 53< 

Notes 98( 

To Princess Frederica on her Marriage . 53; 

Notes 985 

Sir John Franklin 531 

Notes 98( 

To Dante 53', 

Notes 98! 



CONTEJ^tTS 



IX 



PAGE 
IRESIAS, AND OTHER POEMS : 

Notes 989 

To E. FitzGerald 537 

Notes 990 

Tiresias 538 

Notes 990 

The Wreck 54^ 

Notes 990 

Despair 544 

Notes 991 

The Ancient Sage 547 

Notes 991 

The Flight 552 

Notes 992 

Tomorrow 555 

Notes 992 

The Spinster's Sweet-Arts . . -557 

Notes .. o .... 992 

Locksley Hall Sixty Years After . . 560 

Notes 993 

Prologue to General Hamley . . . 568 

Notes 993 

The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at 

Balaclava 568 

Notes 993 

Epilogue ....... 569 

Notes 994 

To Virgil 570 

Notes 994 

The Dead Prophet 571 

Notes 994 

Early Spring 573 

Notes 995 

Prefatory Poem to my Brother's Sonnets 573 

Notes 995 

' Frater Ave atque Vale ' . . . . 574 

Notes 995 

Helen's Tower ...... 574 

Notes 995 

Epitaph on Lord Stratford de Redcliffe . 574 

Notes 995 

Epitaph on General Gordon . . . 574 

Notes ....... 995 

Epitaph on Caxton 575 

Notes 995 

To the Duke of Argyll . . . .575 

Notes 995 

Hr>-.^ >11 Round 575 

■ " 996 

■■■•''"' 575 

- .'i-i- . . . . . , .996 

To H.R.H. Princess Beatrice. . . 576 

Notes ....... 996 

The Fleet 577 

Notes 996 

Opening of the Indian and Colonial Ex- 
hibition by the Queen .... 577 
Notes ....... 996 

T 



Tiresias and other Poems {continued)— 
Poets and their Bibliographies . . 578 

Notes 996 

To W. C. Macready . . . .578 



Queen Mary 

Notes 

Harold 
Notes 

Becket 
Notes 

The Cup . 

Notes 

The Falcon 
Notes 

The Promlse of 
Notes 

The Foresters 
Notes 



May 



579 
997 
652 
1000 

693 
1002 

750 
1006 

767 
1007 

778 
1007 

804 

lOOQ 



Demeter, and other Poems : 

To the Marquis of Duflferin and Ava . 842 

Notes ion 

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria . . 843 

Notes ion 

To Professor J ebb ..... 844 

Notes ion 

Demeter and Persephone .... 844 

Notes 1012 

Owd Roa 847 

Notes 1012 

r-Vastness 850 

Notes 1012 

The Ring 851 

Notes 1012 

Forlorn 859 

Notes 1013 

Happy ....... 860 

Notes ...... 1013 

To Ulysses 863 

Notes 1013 

To Mary Boyle 864 

Notes . . o . . . . 1013 

The Progress of Spring .... 865 

Notes 1013 

^-Merlin and The Gleam . . . .86; 

Notes 1013 

Romney's Remorse ^69 

Notes -015 

Parnassus ^72 

Notes 1015 

By an Evolutionist . . . . • 872 

Notes • 1015 

Far— far— away . . • . • 873 

Notes • ^015 



:di^NTENTS 



DeMETKK, and OIHEK POKMS {contiL) — 

Politics 873 

Notes 1015 

Beautiful City 873 

Notes 1015 

The Roses on tho Tenace . . . 874 

Notes 1015 

The Play 874 

Notes ioi6 

On One who atVeclecl an I'^tVeminate 

Manner ....... 874 

Notes 1016 

To One who ran down the English . . 874 

Notes ioi6 

The Snowdrop 874 

Notes 1016 

The Throstle 874 

Notes 1016 

The Oak 874 

Notes ioi6 

In Memoriam — William George Ward . 875 

Notes . ior6 

The Death of CEnone, and other 

Poems : 
June Bracken and Heatlier . . . 876 

Notes 1016 

To tho Master of Balliol . . . .876 
The Death of (Enone . . . .876 

Notes 1016 

St. Telcmachns 878 

Notes ....... 1017 

Akhar's Dream 880 

Notes 1017 

The Bandit's Death 885 

Notes 1018 

The Church-warden and the Curate . 886 

Notes 1018 



The Death of CEnone, and othek 
PoF,Ms {continufiJ)— 

Charity 

Notes 

Kapiolani 

Notes 

The Dawn 

Notes 

The Making of Man .... 

Notes 

The Dreamer ...... 

Notes 

Mechanophilus 

Notes 

Riflemen form ! 

Notes 

The Tourney 

Notes 

The Wanderer ...... 

Poets and Critics 

Notes 

^^ Voice spake out of the Skies 

Notes 

^Douht and Pr.iyer ..... 

Notes 

/^ Faith 

Notes 

"^ The Silent Voices 

^ Notes 

"*^God and the Universe .... 

Notes 

The Death of the Duke of Clarence and 

Avondale 

Notes 

Crossing the Bar 

Notes 



ID' 



8(j3 
1019 

80 ^ 
101 o 
80 < 

TOl 



894 
10 1.) 

lOK) 



Appendix to Notes 1021 

Index to the First Lines 1025 

Index to 'In Memoriam' 1029 

Index to Songs 1031 



LIFE AND WORK 

OF 

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.' 

SOMERSBY. 

My father was born on August 6, 1809, at the Rectory of Somersby 
in Lincolnshire, the fourth son of a family of eight sons and four daughters. 
The parish doctor said of him when a week old — 

Here's a leg for a babe of a week ! and he would be bound 
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 

The Tennysons trace their descent through a long line of Yorkshire 
and Lincolnshire squires and yeomen from John Tenison of Holderness 
(1343), and according to Burke are the co-representatives with the Lords 
Scarsdale of the ancient family of d'Eyncourt. My father's grandfather 
and two of his uncles sat in Parliament. His father, Dr. Tennyson, Vicar 
of vSomersby, was a distinguished-looking man, cultivated, and fond of 
languages and science. He was a competent scholar in Latin, Greek, 
and Hebrew and Syriac, and something of a poet, a painter, and a 
musician. By the right of primogeniture he ought to have inherited 
a considerable fortune, but his father disinherited him in favour of his 
younger son Charles Tennyson, and made him take Holy Orders, for 
which he had no vocation, and this unfitness plunged him at times into 
deep fits of melancholy. He was a man of the highest truth and honour, 
and inspired his neighbours with a certain sense of fear, though he was a 
;^'^enial and brilliant conversationalist. His children were all by nature 
poets, and Leigh Hunt aptly described them as "a nest of nightingales." 
When Alfred was a boy, one of his earliest recollections was his grand- 

^ [This preface to the poems is naturally an abridgment of my Memoir of my 
father, with here and there some few facts added, illustrating his character or the 
methods ol" his work. The commentaries and notes are for the most part those which 
he himself jo'ted down or bad me jot down for posthumous publication. — T.] 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 



mother reading to him " The Prisoner of Chillon." She used to say, "All 
Alfred's poetry comes from me." This brood of " nightingales " lived 
remote from towns in the lonely heart of the country. It was a time 
of storm and stress in Europe, but they only caught dim echoes of the 
great storm, and " that world-earthquake, Waterloo." 

" According to the best of my recollection," writes my father, " when 
I was about eight years old, I covered two sides of a slate with 
Thomsonian blank verse in praise of flowers for my brother Charles, who 
was a year older than I was, Thomson then being the only poet I knew. 
Before I could read I was in the habit on a stormy day of spreading my 
arms to the wind, and crying out, < I hear a voice that's speaking in the 
wind,' and the words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm for 
me. About ten or eleven Pope's Homefs Iliad became a favourite of 
mine, and I wrote hundreds and hundreds of lines in the regular Popeian 
metre, nay even could improvise them, so could my two elder brothers, 
for my father was a poet and could write regular metre very skilfully." 

The note continues — " My father once said to me, ' Don't write so 
rhythmically, break your lines occasionally for the sake of variety.' 

" ' Artist first, then Poet,' some writer said of me. I should answer, 
*• Poeta nascitur non fif \ indeed, *■ Poeta nascitur et fit.'' I suppose I was 
nearer thirty than twenty before I was anything of an artist. At 
about twelve and onwards I wrote an epic of about six thousand lines 
a la Walter Scott, — full of battles, dealing too with sea and mountain 
scenery, — with Scott's regularity of octosyllables and his occasional 
varieties. Though the performance was very likely worth nothing, I 
never felt myself more truly inspired. I wrote as much as seventy lines 
at one time, and used to go shouting them about the fields in the dark. 
All these early efforts have been destroyed, only my brother-in-law, 
Edmund Lushington, begged for a page or two of the Scott poem. 
Somewhat later (at fourteen) I wrote a Drama in blank verse, which I 
have still, and other things. It seems to me I wrote them all in perfect 
metre." 

These poems of uncommon promise made my grandfather say with 
pardonable pride, " If Alfred die one of our great poets will have gone," 
and at another time, " I should not wonder if Alfred were to revive the 
greatness of his relative, William Pitt." 

When Alfred was seven he went to the grammar school at Louth, 
the little township on the banks of the river Ludd, but he hated the 
constraint. He left school in 1820 and returned to Somersby, where his 
father taught him and his brother Charles until they went to Cambridge. 
They read the great authors, — the ancient classics, and Chaucer, 
Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Bacon, Hooker, Bunyan, Addison, Burke, 
Goldsmith, The Arabian Nights, Malory's Morte D' Arthur. The earliest 
letter from him that has survived was addressed to his Aunt Marianne 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xiii 

Fytche. It is an amusing piece of precocity for a boy of twelve 
years old. 

SOMERSBY. 

My dear Aunt Marianne — When I was at Louth you used to tell me 
that you should be obliged to me if I would write to you and give you my remarks 
on works and authors. I shall now fulfil the promise which I made at that time. 
Going into the library this morning, I picked up " Sampson Agonistes," on which (as 
I think it is a play you like) I shall send you my remarks. The first scene is the 
lamentation of Sampson, which possesses much pathos and sublimity. This passage, 

Restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm 
Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, 
But rush upon me thronging, and present 
Times past, what once I was, and what am now, 

puts me in mind of that in Dante, which Lord Byron has prefixed to his " Corsair," 
" Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice, Nella miseria." His 
complaint of his blindness is particularly beautiful, 

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 

Blind among enemies ! O worse than chains, 

Dungeon or beggary, or decrepit age ! 

Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, 

And all her various objects of delight * 

Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased 

Inferior to the vilest now become 

Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me : 

They creep, yet see ; I, dark in light, exposed 

To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong. 

Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 

Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 

Without all hope of day ! 

O first created beam, and thou great Word, 

" Let there be light ! " and light was over all. — 

I think this is beautiful, particularly 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon. 

After a long lamentation of Sampson the Chorus enters, saying these words : 

This, this is he. Softly awhile ; 

Let us not break in upon him : 

O change beyond report, thought, or belief ! 

See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused. 

If you look into Bp. Newton's notes, you will find that he informs you that 
"this beautiful application of the word 'diffused' is borrowed from the Latin." 
It has the same meaning as temere in one of the Odes of Horace, Book the second. 

Sic temere, et rosa 
Canos odorati capillos, 



XIV LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

of which this is a free translation, "Why lie we not at random, under the shade of 
the platain (sub platano), having our hoary head perfumed with rose water ? " To an 
English reader the metre of the Chorus may seem unusual, but the difficulty will 
vanish, when I inform him that it is taken from the Greek. In line 1333 there is 
this expression, " Chalybean tempered steel." The Chalybes were a nation among 
the ancients very famous for the making of steel, hence the expression " Chalybean," 
or peculiar to the Chalybes : in line 147 "the Gates of Azzur " ; this probably, as 
Bp. Newton observes, was to avoid too great an alliteration which the '* Gates of 
Gaza" would have caused, though (in my opinion) it would have rendered it more 
beautiful : and (though I do not affirm it as a fact) perhaps Milton gave it that 
name for the sake of novelty, as all the world knows he was a great pedant. I 
have not, at present, time to write any more ; perhaps I may continue my remarks 
in another letter to you, but (as I am very volatile and fickle) you must not depend 
upon me, for I think you do not know any one who is so fickle as — Your affectionate 

"^P^^e^' A. Tennyson. 

Byron, who is mentioned in this letter, was worshipped by my father in 
his boyhood. He told me that when Byron died he felt stunned and "as 
if the world had been darkened " for him ; and he could only rush out 
into the wood and carve on the sandstone rock, " Byron is dead." In his 
old age he used to say, " Byron is too much depreciated now, but he has 
such force that he will come into his own again." Through these early 
years my father made many friends among the Lincolnshire farmers, 
labourers, and fisher folk, " Like Wordsworth on the mountains," said 
FitzGerald, "Alfred too, when a lad abroad on the wold, sometimes of 
a night with the shepherd, watched not only the flock on the greensward, 
but also 'the fleecy star that bears Andromeda far off Atlantic seas.' 
Two of his earliest lines were 

The rays of many a rolling central star 

Are flashing earthward, have not reached us yet." 

The Lincolnshire folk were apt in the early part of the nineteenth 
century to be uncouth and mannerless. A type of rough independence 
was my grandfather's coachman, who, blamed for not keeping the harness 
clean, rushed into the drawing-room, flung the whole harness on the floor, 
and roared out " Clean it yourself, then." Again, the Somersby cook was 
a decided character, and " Master Awlfred " heard her in some rage 
against her master and her mistress exclaim : " If you raked out Hell 
with a small-tooth comb, you weant find their likes," a phrase which long 
lingered in my father's memory. 

In the poem of " Isabel " he more or less described his mother,^ " a 
remarkable and saintly woman." She devoted herself entirely to her 
husband and children, and to the poor of the parish. 

1 Elizabeth, daughter of the Rev. Stephen Fytche. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xv 

Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 

The intuitive decision of a bright 

And thorough -edged intellect to part 
Error from crime. 

She earnestly looked forward to the time when Alfred would become " not 
only a great poet but a great and good man." 

He inherited from her a spirit of reverence, humour, love of animals, and 
extreme sensitiveness. This sensitiveness contrasted remarkably with his 
great physical strength and his downright bluntness. " All the Tennysons 
are black-blooded," he would say, for his father's melancholy preyed upon 
them all more or less through life. As a child in the middle of the black 
night he would rush forth, fling himself on the graves in the little church- 
yard — asking God to let him soon be beneath the sod. But his strongest 
characteristic was his love of Nature, to which he always turned for 
comfort. Everywhere in Nature he heard a voice — he saw everywhere 
above Life and Nature " the gleam." 

Over the mountain, 
On human faces, 
And all around me, 
Moving to melody, 
Floated the Gleam. 

The charm and beauty of the brook at Somersby haunted him. He 
delighted to recall the rare richness of the bowery lanes ; the wooded 
hollow of Holy Well ; the cold springs flowing from the sandstone rocks, 
the flowers, the mosses, and the ferns. He loved this land of quiet 
villages, "ridged wolds," large fields, gray hill-sides, "tufted knolls," 
noble ash-trees. He had a passion for the " waste enormous marsh," the 
" heaped hills that bound the sea," the boundless shore at Mablethorpe, 
and the thunderous breakers. FitzGerald writes : " I used to say Alfred 
never should have left old Lincolnshire, where there were not only such 
good seas, but also such fine hill and dale among ' the Wolds ' which he 
was brought up in, as people in general scarce thought on." My Uncle 
Charles told how, on the afternoon of the publication of the Poetns by 
Two Brothers in 1826, my father and he hired a carriage with some of 
the money earned, and driving along fourteen miles over the wolds and 
the marsh to Mablethorpe, "shared their triumph with the winds and 
waves." 

The following fragment, written on revisiting Mablethorpe, is a notable 
sample of his descriptive style : — 



I Ih'H ANi> liOh'K (>/•' .//./'A'A/) /()A7> 77i7VA' I'.VO.V 



MAIIl.KrUDUI'K. 

lliTC oltcn wlu-n a rhiUl 1 lay ri'i'liiu'il : 

1 took ilrli^ltt in tl\is fail land aiul (roc ; 
llcir sIihhI llu> inlant llion of the »»\iud, 

Ami here the (Irecian sliips all seeiuM lo In-. 
And here aj^ain I eoiwe, and only llnd 

The drain i"ut levi-l ot the n\aishy li-a, 
dray sai^chhanUs, unil pule sunsets, dreary wimi, 

l>ln» shores, ileuse ruins, anil heavy-elouded sea. 

Aiul this siinih^ in /'//<' Last Tournanunt is also taken tiom what he 
ottt>n saw lhtMt> : 

as the crest of some slow-arehinj.'. wave, 
IIimhI in deiid ni^ht alon^ that table shon-, 
|)n>|>s tlal, and altt'r the ^ii-at waters hn-ak 
Whitening tor hall a league, and thin themselves, 
l'"ar over sands nuirhled with n\oi>n and cloud, 
Kioni less and less to nothing. 

('ami'.kiix:!': ani> .Xkiiuik IIai.iam. 

In 1 8^7 Frtnlerick rennysi»n, the eldest brother, went to Tiinity 
t."olle^e, ami was joined tluMc in the following year by Charles and AllV(>il. 
My father fell the confinen\ent of his life af\er the free eounti\, and a 
want i>f inspiratitM\ and sympathy in the teachint; piinided by the i olU\i;e 
.uithorities. I li- wi ite-. : 

I am siiiinj; owl like and solitary in my roonis (nothinj; between nu' and the 
stars hut :\ stratunr of tiles). The hoof of the steed, the roll of the wheid, the 
shvHits ol drunken (Unvn ui\d drunken Town eonu* up froni below with a sea like 
n\urnuM-. 1 wish to J leaven I had Prince llussuin's fairy carpet to transport me 
alon^ the deeps of air to yinir coterie. Nay, I would even take \\\> with his 
broll\er Aboul-somethin^'s ^luss for the mere pleasure of a [H'e[). What a pity it 
is that the golden days of Faerie are over ! \Vhat a ntisery niU to be able to con- 
solidate our gossanter dreams into reality ! . . . When, my tiearest Avmt, may I 
hope to see you ui;ain ? I know not how it is, but I feel isolated here in the midst 
\^i. society. The country is so dis^ustinj^ly level, the revelry of the place so 
nu>m>toiU)us, the studies of tin* l'niversit\' so uninteresting, so much matter t»f fact. 
Noi\e but dry-headed, eaUulatini^, an«'ul,u little gentlemen can take nuich delight in 
A \- b, etc. 

1 have been seeking ''Falkland" here for a long time without sm-cess. Those 
beavuihd extructs iVom it, which you showed me at Tealby, haunt n\e incessantly ; 
b\it wishes, I think, like telescopes reversetl, seem to int their objects at a greater 
distance. 

" I lan tell you nothing i>f his collet^e days," writes FAlwanl Fit/- 
UeraKl to a triend, 'Mor I did not know ium till they were ovei, thouj^h 1 
had seen h)n\ two or three times before: 1 remember him well, u sort of 
1 1\ perion." 



IJl'li AND WOh'K ()l< Al.l'h'l'.t) /.Oh'/) -/'/'.NNYSON 



Willi lii:, poclic ii.'iliiic ;iihI wuiiiilli <W heart, he hoon miule liih wjiy. 
I'aniiy Kciiihic, who used to visit her brotiicr John, s.'iid of him when ,'it 
(oHcfM;, "Ahicd Tennyson was our hero, the great liero of our day." 
Aiioihii hiriid descriljes him as "six feet higl), broad-chested, strong- 
hiiihcd, his face Shakespearian, with dee[) eyelids, his forehead ample, 
( rowned with dark wavy hair, his Ijead (inely jjoised, his liand tiie admira- 
lion of srulptors, lon^ (infers with square tips, soft as a child's but of 
^n-at size and stren^;lh. What strurk one most about him was the uni<Hi 
of stren^^h with rehn<;ment." 

In later y(;ars he confessed thai he owed iiiu* h to riunbi )<!;.;(•. At 
Somersby lie had stucbed nature, there he was able to study his fellow- 
men. His friends were many, scholars and poets, Arthm JIallain, Trench, 
r.rookfield, Milnes, Spring-Kice, Merivale, Lushington, Jilakeslcy, Speddin>^, 
Thompson, and oth(;rs. When niy father first came into the dininj<-hall at 
Trinity, Thompson said at once, " 'J'liat man must be a poet 1 " 'i'liere was 
in all ihese youn^ fellows, k(ten intellectual ener;^y, imaj<inativ(; },'enerosity, 
and public spirit, 'i'hey called aloud for liberty :\\\(\ toleration. The star 
of Hyron, which had shone brij^htly in my father's boyho(Kl, had set ; Keats, 
Shelley, CJolerid}<e, and Wordsworth were in the ascendant. *' Byron 
and Shelley," my father wrote, "however mistaken they were, did yet give 
the world another heart and new j>ulses " by tlxtir fiery lyriral genius. 
" If K<;ats had lived," he added, "he would have been the greatest of us." 
Wordsworth he looked on "as the greatest poet on the whole since 
]Vliltf)n. lUank verse, ind(;ed, is the finest possible vehicle foi lhrMi;;hl in 
Shakespeare as well as in IVIillr)n," 

Who',<- Titiiii ;iiiiM:ls, (;:il,ri<-l, Ah.Jir.-l, 
Starr'd from Jdioviili's gorj^cous armouries, 
Tower, as the deep-doKirfl empyrean 
Kings to lh«; roar of an anj^el on.set, 

A society of young Cambri<lge men, to which my father and most of 
his friends belonged, callefl "The Apostles," was then said to be "waxing 
daily in religion and nidicalisni." 'I'hey not only debated on politics but 
read Hobbes, F.ocke, Berkeley, Butler, Hume, Bentham, Descartes and 
Kant, and discussed such questions as the Origin of Kvil, the Derivation of 
Moral Sentiments, Prayer, and the Personality of (iod. Among the Cam- 
bridge i)apers I find a remarkable sentence on " Prayer" by Hallam : 

WiU) respect to prayer, you ask how I am to dislinguisli lh(; operations of (io<l 
in me frcjiii motions in my own heart r* Why should you distinguisli them or how 
do you know there is any distinction ? Is God l<*ss Oo<l because He acts by general 
law:, when lie de.als with the connnon elements of nature ? . . . That fatal mistake 
which lias emharrass(!d the philosophy of mind with infinite cr>nfusion, the mistake 
of settiii}^ value on a thing's origin rather than on its character, of assuming that 
composiie must be less exfielhtnl than simple, h:i.H not been «low to extend its 
deleterifjii:, influence over the field of praclicui reiiyion. 



XVIU LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

My father — after perhaps reading Cuvier, or Humboldt — seems to 
have propounded in some college discussion the theory that " the develop- 
ment of the human body might possibly be traced from the radiated, 
vermicular, molluscous and vertebrate organisms." The question of 
surprise put to him on this proposition was, " Do you mean that the 
human brain is at first like a madrepore's, then like a worm's, etc. ? but 
this cannot be, for they have no brain." 

At this time, with one or two of his more literary friends, he took a 
great interest in the work which Hallam had undertaken, a translation 
from the Vita Nuova of Dante, with notes and prefaces. For this task 
Hallam, who in 1827 had been in Italy with his parents, and had drunk 
deep of the older Italian literature, says that he was perfecting himself in 
German and Spanish, and was proposing to plunge into the Florentine 
historians and the medieval Schoolmen. He wrote to my father : " I 
expect to glean a good deal of knowledge from you concerning metres 
which may be serviceable as well for my philosophy in the notes as for 
my actual handiwork in the text. I purpose to discuss considerably about 
poetry in general, and about the ethical character of Dante's poetry." 
My father said of his friend : " Arthur Hallam could take in the most 
abstruse ideas with the utmost rapidity and insight, and had a marvellous 
power of work and thought, and a wide range of knowledge. On one 
occasion, I remember, he mastered a difficult book of Descartes at a 
single sitting." 

On June 6, 1829, the announcement was made that my father had 
won the Chancellor's prize medal for his poem in blank verse on 
"Timbuctoo." Out of his "horror of publicity," as he said, he gave it 
to his friend Merivale for declamation in the Senate House. To win the 
prize in anything but rhymed heroics was an innovation. My grandfather 
had desired him to compete, so unwillingly he patched up an old poem 
on " The Battle of Armageddon," and came out prizeman over Milnes, 
Hallam, and others. 

His friends remarked that he had from the first a deep insight 
into character, and would often turn upon them with a terse and some- 
times grim criticism when they thought him far away in the clouds, as 
for instance : " There is a want of central dignity about him, he excuses 
himself," or " That is the quick decision of a mind that sees half the 
truth." They also pronounced him to be an unusually fine literary critic, 
and a man of deep thought and infinite humour. His first volume of 
Poems, chiefly Lyrical ^2JS> published in 1830. Arthur Hallam criticised 
it in the Ejiglishman^ s Magazine, and his enthusiasm was worthy of 
his true and unselfish friendship. Hallam was, according to my father, 
"as near perfection as mortal man can be." " If ever man was born for 
great things," Kemble wrote to his sister Fanny, " he was. Never 
was a more powerful intellect joined to a purer and holier heart ; and the 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xix 

whole illuminated with the richest imagination, with the most sparkling 
yet the kindest wit." In this connection I may quote the following note 
received by me (June 191 3) from the present Master of Trinity : 

It must have been early in 1886 that I was a guest at Trinity Lodge. After 
breakfast, one Sunday, Dr. Thompson and I were talking about the very distin- 
guished group of his contemporaries, and in particular of the Arthur Hallam of 
"In Memoriam." I remember saying to Dr. Thompson in substance — I cannot 
recall my exact words — "Are you able to say, not from later evidence, but from 
your recollection of what you thought at the time, which of the two friends had 
the greater intellect, Hallam or Tennyson?" "Oh, Tennyson !" he said at once 
with strong emphasis, as if the matter was not open to doubt. 

Arthur Hallam was often at Somersby and became engaged to my 
father's sister Emily. Together my father and he visited the Pyrenees, 
and held a secret meeting with the leaders of a conspiracy against the 
tyrant, King Ferdinand of Spain. It was there in the Pyrenees that my 
father wrote part of " CEnone." 

Such descriptive lines as these are based upon the Pyrenean scenery: 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

" Before I pass on from ' CEnone,' " Arthur Sidgwick writes, " I may 
add a word or two on Tennyson's classical poetry generally, and his debt 
to the great ancient masterpieces. He was perhaps not exactly a scholar 
in what I may call the narrow professional sense ; but in the broadest 
and truest sense he was a ^r^<2/ scholar. In all Tennyson's classic pieces, 
' CEnone,' ' Ulysses,' ' Demeter,' ' Tithonus,' the legendary subjects, and 
in the two historic subjects, ' Lucretius ' and ' Boadicea,' the classical 
tradition is there with full detail, but by the poet's art it is transmuted. 
' CEnone ' is epic in form, the rest are brief monodramas : the material 
is all ancient, and in many subtle ways the spirit ; the handling is modern 
and original. In translations, too few, Tennyson can only be called 
consummate." 

In February 1831 Dr. Tennyson fell ill and summoned my father 
home from Cambridge, and in March he was found leaning back in his 
chair, having passed away suddenly and peacefully. The Tennysons, 
however, did not leave Somersby Rectory until 1837. Hallam still 



XX LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

continued to visit them and read Dante, Tasso, and Petrarch with my 
father and his sister Emily. My father managed all the affairs of the 
family. His extraordinary common - sense was notable throughout 
his life, and was frequently commented on by his Cambridge con- 
temporaries. In 1832 Hallam and he went a tour up the Rhine, and my 
father published his second volume, Poems by Alfred Te7inyson. Some 
critics saw that a new and true poet had come among them, and Emerson 
praised the volume in America. Of "The Lady of Shalott," which is 
"not far below the high-water mark of symbolic poetry," ^ Hallam wrote, 
"The more I read it the more I like it." Of the " Lotos-Eaters " Merivale 
said to Thompson, " I have converted by my readings both my brother 
and your friend Richardson to faith in the ' Lotos-Eaters.' " " Mariana 
in the South," written in the South of France, especially delighted Hallam. 
" The Palace of Art," my father notes, " is the embodiment of my own 
belief that the godlike life is with man and for man, and that Beauty, 
Good, and Knowledge are three sisters that never can be sundered 
without tears." 

Among the poems often quoted by Trench and his other friends at 
this time was " Anacaona," which, however, was not published by him in 
his collected works. 

Anacaona 

A dark Indian maiden, 

Warbling in the bloom'd liana, 
Stepping lightly flower-laden, 

By the crimson-eyed anana, 
Wantoning in orange groves 

Naked, and dark-limb'd, and gay, 
Bathing in the slumbrous coves, 
In the cocoa-shadow'd coves, 

Of sunbright Xaraguay, 
Who was so happy as Anacaona, 

The beauty of Espagnola, 

The golden flower of Hayti ? 

In the purple island, 

Crown'd with garlands of cinchona. 
Lady over wood and highland. 

The Indian queen, Anacaona, 
Dancing on the blossomy plain 

To a woodland melody : ^ 

Playing with the scarlet crane, 
The dragon-fly and scarlet crane, 

Beneath the papao tree ! 
Happy, Happy was Anacaona, 

1 Sir Alfred Lyall. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 



The beauty of Espagnola, 
The golden flower of Hayti ! 

Naked, without fear, moving 

To her Areyto's mellow ditty, 
Waving a palm branch, wondering, loving, 

Carolling " Happy, happy Hayti ! " 
She gave the white men welcome all, 

With her damsels by the bay ; 
For they were fair-faced and tall, 
They were more fair-faced and tall, 

Than the men of Xaraguay, 
And they smiled on Anacaona, 

The beauty of Espagnola, 

The golden flower of Hayti ! 

Following her wild carol 

She led them down the pleasant places. 
For they were kingly in apparel. 

Loftily stepping with fair faces. 
But never more upon the shore 

Dancing at the break of day. 
In the deep wood no more, — 
By the deep sea no more, — 

No more in Xaraguay 
Wander'd happy Anacaona, 

The beauty of Espagnola, 

The golden flower of Hayti ! 

Christopher North criticised the volume of 1832 shdiYT^ly'm Blackwood \ 
"Alfred is the greatest owl . . ." The Quarterly ridiculed the poems 
pitilessly. My father was depressed by these unfavourable reviews. As 
Jowett notes : "Tennyson experienced a great deal of pain from the 
attacks of his enemies. I never remember his receiving the least pleasure 
from the commendation of his friends." Of flatterers he used to say, 
" Flattery makes me sick." Friendly criticism of a sane critic like 
Spedding or Hallam was much more to him than the praise or dispraise 
of the multitude. " I think it wisest," he writes to Henry van Dyke, 
"for a man to do his work in the world as quietly and as well as he 
can, without much heeding the praise or dispraise." Hallam urged 
him to find amusement in those " hair-splitting critics who are the bane 
of good art." "To raise the many," he continued, "to his own real 
point of view, the artist must employ his energies and create energy in 
others." The general estimation in which the Quarterly was then held 
was echoed by an old Lincolnshire squire who assured my father 
that "the Quarterly was the next book to God's Bible." His friends 
felt that he had begun to base his poetry more on the broad and common 



xxii LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

interests of the time and of universal humanity, but their commendation 
did not much comfort him, and he thought of leaving England to live 
in Jersey, Italy, or the South of France. Hallam urged him to publish 
" The Lover's Tale," i which had been written in 1828, but he thought it had 
too many crude thoughts and lines. Of this poem and " Timbuctoo " my 
father said, " Neither is imitative of any poet, and as far as I know nothing 
of mine after ' Timbuctoo ' was imitative. As for being original, nothing 
can be said which has not been said before in some form or another." 
Then came a crushing grief, the death of Hallam at Vienna on September 
15, 1833. "The Two Voices" or "Thoughts of a Suicide" was begun 
under the cloud of this overwhelming sorrow. But such a great friendship 
and such a loss helped to reveal him to himself. " Alfred," writes one 
of his friends, " although much broken in spirits, is yet able to divert his 
thoughts from gloomy brooding, and keep his hand in activity." 

A still small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? " 

Then to the still small voice I said, 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

" My poem of ' Ulysses,' " so his own words tell us, " gives my thought 
more simply than ' In Memoriam ' of the need of going forward and brav- 
ing the difficulties of life." His belief in God, his strong sense of duty, 
and his own power made him devote himself to work. The following is a 
list of the week's work which he drew up : Monday — History, German. 
Tuesday — Chemistry, German. Wednesday — Botany, German. Thursday 
— Electricity, German, Friday — Animal Physiology, German. Saturday — 
Mechanics. Sunday — Theology. Next week — Italian in the afternoon. 
Third week — Greek ; and in the evenings Poetry, Racine, Moliere, etc. 
"Perpetual idleness," he would say, "must be one of the punishments 
in Hell." Now and then, when he could save a little hoard, he went to 
London to visit his friends in their homes. One of his troubles at this 
time was that he was pestered by applications from the editors of magazines 
and annuals for poems. For example, Milnes wrote to him in 1835 asking 
for a contribution to an annual edited by Lord Northampton. He sent the 
following answer : 

December- I S3 6. 

Dear Richard — As I live eight miles from my post-town and only correspond 
therewith about once a week, you must not wonder if this reaches you somewhat 
late. Your former brief I received, though some six days behind time, and stamped 

1 This poem, founded on one of Boccaccio's tales (1827), was pirated in 1879, and 
so he published it with a sequel "The Golden Supper." 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxiii 

with the post-marks of every little market-town in the country, but I did not think 
it demanded an immediate answer, hence my silence. 

That you had promised the Marquis I would write for him something exceeding 
the average length of *' Annual compositions " ; that you had promised him I would 
write at all : I took this for one of those elegant fictions with which you amuse 
your aunts of evenings, before you get into the small hours when dreams are 
true. Three summers back, provoked by the incivility of editors, I swore an oath 
that I would never again have to do with their vapid books, and I brake it in the 
sweet face of Heaven when I wrote for Lady What's-her-name Wortley. But then 
her sister wrote to Brookfield and said she (Lady W.) was beautiful, so I could not 
help it. But whether the Marquis be beautiful or not, I don't much mind ; if he 
be, let him give God thanks and make no boast. To write for people with prefixes 
to their names is to milk he-goats ; there is neither honour nor profit. Up to this 
moment I have not even seen The Keepsake : not that I care to see it, for the want 
of civility decided me not to break mine oath again for man nor woman, and how 
should such a modest man as I see my small name in collocation with the great 
ones of Southey, Wordsworth, R. M. M., etc., and not feel myself a barndoor fowl 
among peacocks ? Good-bye. — Believe me always thine, A. T. 

Milnes was angry at the refusal, and my father answered him banter- 
ingly again : 

Jan. lo, 1837. 

Why what in the name of all the powers, my dear Richard, makes you run me 
down in this fashion ? Now is my nose out of joint, now is my tail not only curled 
so tight as to lift me off my hind legs like Alfred Crowquill's poodle, but fairly 
between them. Many sticks are broken about me. I am the ass in Homer. I 
am blown. What has so jaundiced your good-natured eyes as to make them mistake 

harmless banter for insolent irony : harsh terms applicable only to who, big as 

he is, sits to all posterity astride upon the nipple of literary dandyism, and "takes 
her milk for gall " ? " Insolent irony " and " piscatory vanity," as if you had been 
writing to St. Anthony, who converted the soft souls of salmon ; but may St. 
Anthony's fire consume all misapprehension, the spleen-born mother of fivefold more 
evil on our turnip-spheroid than is malice aforethought. 

Had I been writing to a nervous, morbidly-irritable man, down in the world, 
stark -spoiled with the staggers of a mismanaged imagination and quite opprest by 
fortune and by the reviews, it is possible that I might have halted to find expressions 
more suitable to his case ; but that you, who seem at least to take the world as it 
comes, to doff it, and let it pass, that you, a man every way prosperous and talented, 
should have taken pet at my unhappy badinage made me lay down my pipe and 
stare at the fire for ten minutes, till the stranger fluttered up the chimney ! You 
wish that I had never written that passage. So do I, since it seems to have given 
such offence. Perhaps you likewise found a stumbling-block in the expression 
*' vapid books," as the angry inversion of four commas seems to intimate. But are 
not Annuals vapid? Or could I possibly mean that what you or Trench or De 
Vere chose to write therein must be vapid ? I thought you knew me better than 
even to insinuate these things. Had I spoken the same things to you laughingly 
in my chair, and with my own emphasis, you would have seen what they really 
meant, but coming to read them peradventure in a fit of indigestion, or with a 
slight matutinal headache after your Apostolic symposium, you subject them to such 
misinterpretation as, if I had not sworn to be true friend to you till my latest death- 



XXIV LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

ruckle, would have gone far to make me indignant. But least said soonest mended ; 
which comes with peculiar grace from me after all this verbiage. You judge me 
rightly in supposing that I would not be backward in doing a really charitable 
deed. I will either bring or send you something for your Annual. It is very 
problematical whether I shall be able to come and see you as I proposed, so do not 
return earlier from your tour on my account ; and if I come, I should only be able 
to stop a few days, for, as I and all my people are going to leave this place very 
shortly never to return, I have much upon my hands. But whether I see you or 
no — Believe me always thine affectionately, A. Tennyson. 

I have spoken with Charles. He has promised to contribute to your Annual?- 
Frederick will, I daresay, follow his example. See now whether I am not doing 
my best for you, and whether you had any occasion to threaten me with that black 
"Anacaona" and her cocoa-shod coves of niggers. I cannot have her strolling 
about the land in this way. It is neither good for her reputation nor mine. When 
is Lord Northampton's book to be published, and how long may I wait before I 
send anything by way of contribution ? 

In the end " O that 'twere possible " (on which " Maud " was after- 
wards founded) was sent to Lord Northampton. FitzGerald also notes 
that in this year Alfred wrote a poem on the Queen's accession, "the 
burden being ' Here's a health to the Queen of the Isles.' " One stanza I 
have heard my father repeat : 

That the voice of a satisfied people may keep 
A sound in her ears like the sound of the deep, 
Like the sound of the deep when the winds are asleep ; 
Here's a health to the Queen of the Isles. 

London and Emily Sellwood. 

Some time about 1835 he had written the following, hitherto unpub- 
lished, fragment on " Semele," ^ which seems to me too fine to be lost : 

Semele. 

I wish'd to see Him. Who may feel 

His light and love ? He comes. 

The blast of Godhead bursts the doors, 

His mighty hands are twined 

About the triple forks, and when He speaks 

^ The Tribute. 

2 Semele was beloved by Zeus. Hera (Juno), being jealous of her, visited her in 
the guise of her old nurse, and persuaded her to ask Zeus to appear to her in the same 
majesty as he appeared to Hera. Zeus warned Semele of the danger of her request. 
But she insisted on seeing him in the majesty of his godhead. He accordingly came to 
her as the god of thunder, and she was burnt up by his lightnings. Zeus, however, 
saved her child, Dionysus (Bacchus), with whom she was pregnant. After a while this 
son of hers took her from the lower world up to Olympus, where she became immortal, 
and was named Thyone. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxv 

The crown of sunlight shudders round 

Ambrosial temples, and aloft, 

Fluttering thro' Elysian air, 

His green and azure mantles float in wavy 

Foldings, and melodious thunder 

Wheels in circles. 

But thou, my son, who shalt be born 

When I am ashes, to delight the world — 

Now with measured cymbal-clash 

Moving on to victory ; 

Now on music-rolling orbs, 

A sliding throne, voluptuously 

Panther-drawn, 

To throbbings of the thunderous gong, 

And melody o' the merrily-blowing flute ; 

Now with troops of clamorous revellers, 

Merrily, merrily. 

Rapidly, giddily, 

Rioting, triumphing 

Bacchanalians, 

Rushing in cadence. 

All in order. 

Plunging down the viney valleys — 

In 1837 the Tennyson family left Somersby and established themselves 
at High Beech in Epping Forest. A little later a life-like portrait is 
drawn of my father by Carlyle, vv^ith whom he was particularly intimate, 
and of whom he said once to Gladstone, " Carlyle is a poet, to whom 
Nature has denied the faculty of verse " : 

Alfred is one of the few British and foreign figures (a not increasing number, I 
think) who are and remain beautiful to me, a true human soul, or some authentic 
approximation thereto, to whom your own soul can say "Brother !" However, I 
doubt he will not come (to see me) ; he often skips me, in these brief visits to 
town ; skips everybody, indeed ; being a man solitary and sad, as certain men are, 
dwelling in an element of gloom, carrying a bit of Chaos about him, in short, 
which he is manufacturing into Cosmos. . . . He had his breeding at Cambridge, 
as if for the Law or the Church ; being master of a small annuity on his father's 
decease, he preferred clubbing with his mother and some sisters, to live unpromoted 
and write poems. In this way he lives still, now here, now there ; the family 
always within reach of London, never in it ; he himself making rare and brief visits, 
lodging in some old comrade's rooms. I think he must be under forty, not much 
under it. One of the finest-looking men in the world. A great shock of rough, 
dusky hair ; bright, laughing, hazel eyes ; massive aquiline face — most massive, 
yet most delicate ; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian-looking, clothes 
cynically loose, free and easy, smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is musical, 
metallic, fit for loud laughter and piercing wail, and all that may lie between ; 
speech and speculation free and plenteous ; I do not meet in these late decades 
such company over a pipe ! We shall see what he will grow to. 

T c 



XXVI LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

Among his friends were now numbered Rogers, Carlyle, Thackeray, 
Dickens, Savage Landor, Maclise, Leigh Hunt, Tom Campbell, Forster, 
W. E. Gladstone. 

Of all London he liked Fleet Street most. He delighted in " the central 
roar." "This is the place where I should like to live," he would say, 
infinitely preferring it to the stuccoed houses of the West End. One day 
in 1842 FitzGerald records a visit to St. Paul's with him, when he observed : 
" Merely as an inclosed space in a huge city this is very fine," and when 
they got out under the heavens into the midst of the " central roar," " This 
is the Mind, that is a mood of it." While in London he often lodged 
in 60 Lincoln's Inn Fields, or at 2 Mitre Court in the Temple, dining 
out at the Cock Tavern. From High Beech the Tennysons migrated 
to Tunbridge Wells, thence to Boxley, Maidstone, near his favourite sister 
Cecilia, who married a year later the great Greek scholar, Edmund 
Lushington. In 1838 he took a tour to Torquay, where he wrote " Audley 
Court." In 1839 he visited Wales, Mablethorpe, Aberystwith, Bourne- 
mouth — in 1840 Warwick, and Coventry, where "Lady Godiva" was written. 
In 1840 he also went to Mablethorpe and Yorkshire. Nature in her 
different aspects in these and other different places gave him inspiration, 
as shown again and again in the poems themselves. The years spent in 
strenuous labour and self-cultivation, and his quasi-engagement to Emily 
Sellwood, daughter of Henry Sellwood of Berkshire, and niece of Sir John 
Franklin,, had braced him for the struggle of life. He would arrange his 
material which he had " in profusion, and give as perfect a volume as he 
could to the world." " I felt certain of one point," he said ; " if I meant 
to make any mark at all it must be by shortness, for the men before me 
had been so diffuse, and most of the big things except King Arthur had 
been done." "One night," writes Aubrey de Vere, "after he had been 
reading aloud several of his poems, all of them short, he passed one of 
them to me and said, ' What is the matter with that poem ? ' I read 
it and answered, ' I see nothing to complain of He laid his fingers 
on two stanzas of it, the third and fifth, and said, ' Read it again.' 
After doing so I said, ' It has now more completeness and totality about 
it, but the two stanzas you cover are among the best' ' No matter,' 
he said, 'they make the poem too long-backed^ and they must go at 
any sacrifice. Every short poem,' he remarked, ' should have a definite 
shape like a curve — sometimes a single, sometimes a double one — assumed 
by a severed tress or the rind of an apple when flung on the floor.' " 

The first time he had met Emily Sellwood was at Somersby in 
1830, when he saw her suddenly in Holy Well Wood walking with 
Arthur Hallam, and said to her, " Are you a Dryad or an Oread wandering 
here?" But the "eternal lack of pence" prevented them marrying until 
1850. Up to 1840, however, they corresponded, and subjoined are some 
fragments of the beautiful letters which he wrote to her : — 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxvii 

"The light of this world is too full of refractions for men ever to see one 
another in their true positions. The world is better than it is called, but wrong 
and foolish. The whole framework seems wrong, which in the end shall be found 
right." 

"Bitterness of any sort becomes not the sons of Adam, still less pride, for they 
are in that talk of theirs for the most part but as children babbling in the market- 
place." 

" The far future has been my world always." 

" I shall never see the Eternal City, nor that dome, the wonder of the world ; I 
do not think I would live there if I could, and I have no money for touring." 

" Mablethorpe. I am not so able as in old years to commune alone with Nature. 
I am housed at Mr. Wildman's, an old friend of mine in these parts : he and his 
wife are two perfectly honest Methodists. When I came I asked her after news, 
and she replied : * Why, Mr. Tennyson, there's only one piece of news that I 
know, that Christ died for all men.' And I said to her : 'That is old news, and 
good and new news ' ; wherewith the good woman seemed satisfied. I was half- 
yesterday reading anecdotes of Methodist ministers, and liking to read them too . . . 
and of the teaching of Christ, that purest light of God." 

"That made me count the less of the sorrows when I caught a glimpse of the 
sorrowless Eternity." 

"A good woman is a wondrous creature, cleaving to the right and the good in 
all change ; lovely in her youthful comeliness, lovely all her life long in comeliness 
of heart." 

" London. There is no one here but John Kemble, with whom I dined twice ; 
he is full of burning indignation against the Russian policy and what he calls the 
moral barbarism of France ; likewise he is striving against what he calls the 
' mechanic influence of the age, and its tendency to crush and overpower the 
spiritual in man,' and indeed what matters it how much man knows and does if he 
keep not a reverential looking upward ? He is only the subtlest beast in the field." 

" We must bear or we must die. It is easier perhaps to die, but infinitely less 
noble. The immortality of man disdains and rejects the thought, the immortality 
of man to which the cycles and the aeons are as hours and as days." 

Throughout his life he always held up this ideal of true love — 

To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I know 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid. 
Not only to keep down the base in man, 
But teach high thought, and amiable words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 



The two Volumes of 1842 and "The Princess." 

The year 1842 saw the pubhcation of two vokimcs of pocMiis, some old 
and re-toiichcd, some new, among them several English Idylls which im- 
mediately raised him to the front rank of poets. Among the new poems 
were "The Gardener's Daughter," "Dora," " Locksley Hall," " The Morte 
d'Arthur," "Love and Duty," "St. Agnes' Eve," "Sir Galahad," 
" Launcelot and Queen Guinevere," " The Vision of Sin," " Break, 
Break," The handling of these later poems is much lighter and freer, 
the interest more varied, deeper and purer ; there is more humanity with 
less imagery, a closer adherence to truth, a greater reliance for effect upon 
the simplicity of Nature. The Quarfcf/y Review passed from its mood of 
hostility to one of admiration. Rogers sent his blessing. Of all the 
criticisms that which pleased him most was a letter from Carlyle : 

CiiEYNE Road, Chelsea, 
December 7, 1842. 
Dear Tennyson — "Wherever this find you, may it find you well, may it come 
as a fricntily greeting to you. I have just been reading your Poems ; I have read 
certain of them over again, and mean to read them over and over till they become 
my poems : this fact, with the inferences that lie in it, is of such empliasis in me^ I 
cannot keep it to myself, but must needs acquaint you too with it. If you knew 
what my relation has been to the thing called English "poetry" for many years 
back, you would think such fact almost surprising ! Truly it is long since in any 
English Book, Poetry, or Prose, I have felt the pulse of a real man's heart as I do 
in this same. A right valiant, true fighting, victorious heart ; strong as a lion's, 
yet gentle, loving, and full of music : what I call a genuine singer's heart ! There 
are tones as of the nightingale ; low murmurs as of wood-doves at summer noon ; 
everywhere a noble sound as of the free winds and leafy woods. The sunniest glow 
of life dwells in that soul, chequered duly with dark streaks from night and Hades : 
everywhere one feels as if all were filled with yellow glowing sunlight, some 
glorious golden Vapcur, from which form after form bodies itself; naturally, golden 
forms. In one word, there seems to be a note of " The Eternal Melodies" in this 
man, for which let all other men be thankful and joyful ! Your " Dora " reminds me 
of the Book of Ruth ; in the "Two Voices," which, I am tokl, some reviewer calls 
"trivial morality," I think of passages in Job. For truth is quite as true in Job's 
time and Ruth's as now. I know you cannot read German : the more interesting 
is it to trace in your " Summer Oak " a beautiful kindred to something that is best 
in Goethe; I mean his " Miillerin " (Miller's Daughter) chiefly, with whom the 
very Mill-dam gets in love, though she proves a flirt after all, and the' thing ends in 
satirical lines ! Very strangely, too, in the " Vision of Sin " I am reminded of my 
friend Jean Paul. This is not babble, it is speech ; true deposition of a volunteer 
witness. And so I say let us all rejoice somewhat. And so let us all smite 
rhythmically, all in concert, " the sounding furrows," and sail forward with new 
cheer "beyond the sunset," whither we are bound — 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down, 
It may be we shall touch the happy Isles 
And see the great Achilles whom we knew. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxix 

These lines do not make me weep, but there is in me what would fill whole 
Lachrymatories as I read. But do you, when you return to London, come down 
to me and let us smoke a pipe together. With few words, with many, or with 
none, it need not be an ineloquent pipe ! 

Farewell, dear Tennyson ; may the gods be good to you. With very great 
sincerity (and in great haste), I subscribe myself — Yours, T. Carlyle. 

During the period preceding the publication of these volumes he saw 
many old and made many new friends — among them Charles Kingsley, 
Frederick Robertson, Aubrey de Vere, Coventry Patrnore, Robert Brown- 
ing, Frederick Pollock. Aubrey de Vere gives an account of a visit made 
at that time to Wordsworth : 

Alfred Tennyson's largeness of mind and of heart was touchingly illustrated by 
his reverence for Wordsworth's poetry, notwithstanding that the immense merits 
which he recognised in it were not, in his opinion, supplemented by a proportionate 
amount of artistic skill. He was always glad to show reverence to the " old poet," 
not then within ten years of the age at which the younger one died. "Words- 
worth," he said to me one day, "is staying at Hampstead in the house of his 
friend Mr. Hoare ; I must go and see him ; and you must come with me. I\Iind 
you do not tell Rogers, or he will be displeased at my being in London and not 
going to see him." We drove up to Hampstead and knocked at the door, and the 
next moment it was opened by the poet of the world, at whose side stood the poet 
of the mountains. Rogers' old face, which had encountered nearly ninety years, 
seemed to double the numbers of its wrinkles as he said, not angrily, but very 
drily : "Ah, you do not come up the hill to see me !" During the visit it was 
with Tennyson that the bard of Rydal held discourse, while the recluse of St. 
James' Place, whom " that angle " especially delighted, conversed with me. As 
we walked back to London through grassy fields not then built over, Tennyson 
complained of the old poet's coldness. He had endeavoured to stimulate some 
latent ardours by telling him of a tropical island where the trees, when they first 
came into leaf, were a vivid scarlet ; — " Every one of them, I told him, one flush 
all over the island, the colour of blood ! It would not do. I could not inflame his 
imagination in the least ! " During the preceding year I had had the great honour 
of passing several days at Rydal Mount with Wordsworth, walking on his 
mountains, and listening to him at his fireside. I told him that a young poet had 
lately risen up. Wordsworth answered that he feared from the little he had heard 
that if Crabbe was the driest of poets, the young aspirant must have the opposite 
fault. I replied that he should judge for himself, and without leave given, recited 
to him two poems by Tennyson, viz. "You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, "and 
" Of old sat Freedom on the heights." Wordsworth listened with a gradually 
deepening attention. After a pause he answered, " I must acknowledge that these 
two poems are very solid and noble in thought. Their diction also seems 
singularly stately. " 

The new publications, however, did not bring him wealth. In 1844 a 
physician near Beech Hill, Dr. Allen, with whom the Tennyson family 
had become acquainted, either conceived or adopted the idea of wood- 
carving by machinery. He inspired the Tennysons with so great an 
enthusiasm for it, that by degrees he persuaded my father to give him the 



XXX LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

money for which, weaned by a careless agent, he had sold his little estate 
in Grasby, Lincolnshire, and even the ^{^500 left him as a legacy by 
Arthm- Hallam's aunt. Not merely this, however, — since, but for my 
father's intervention apparently, all the property of such of the family as 
were at Beech Hill would have merged in this philanthropic undertaking ; 
so fascinating was the prospect of oak panels and oak furniture carved by 
machinery, thus brought by its cheapness within the reach of the 
multitude. The confidence my father had placed in the " earnest-frothy " 
Dr. Allen proved to be misplaced. The entire project collapsed ; my 
father's worldly goods were all gone, and a portion of the property of his 
brothers and sisters. Then followed a season of real hardship and self- 
sacrifice and many trials for my father and mother, since marriage seemed 
to be farther off than ever. So severe a hypochondria set in upon him 
that his friends despaired of his life. " I have," he writes, " drunk one of 
those most bitter draughts out of the cup of life, which go near to make 
men hate the world they move in." My uncle, Edmund Lushington, in 
1844 generously insured Dr. Allen's life for part of the debt due to my 
father ; the Doctor died in January .1845. 

His friends procured my father a civil list pension, chiefly through the 
intervention of Carlyle and Henry Hallam. He recovered his health and 
set to work again, and in 1847 published "The Princess," the "herald 
melody" of the higher education of women, although perhaps in this 
progressive age the then progressive views expressed there may seem to 
some now somewhat old-fashioned. Andrew Lang writes : " On reading 
' The Princess ' afresh one is impressed, despite old familiarity, with the 
extraordinary influence of its beauty. Here are, indeed, the best words 
best placed, and that curious felicity of style, which makes every line a 
marvel, and an eternal possession. It is as if Tennyson had taken the 
advice which Keats gave to Shelley, 'Load every rift with ore.'" As for 
the various characters of the poem, they give all possible views of women's 
higher education, and as for the Princess Ida, the poet who created her 
considered her as one of the noblest of his creations. Woman must train 
herself to do the large work that lies before her even though she may 
not be destined to be wife or mother, cultivating her understanding, not 
her memory only, her imagination in its highest phases, her inborn 
spirituality and her sympathy with all that is pure, noble, and beautiful, 
rather than mere social accomplishments ; then and then only will she 
further the progress of humanity, then and then only will men continue 
to hold her in reverence. For simple rhythm and word and vowel music 
he considered his " Come down, O Maid," mostly written in Switzerland 
(1846), as among his most successful blank verse : 

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height : 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills ? 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxxi 

But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 

To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 

To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 

And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 

For Love is of the valley, come thou down 

And find him ; . . . 

... let the torrent dance thee down 

To find him in the valley ; let the wild 

Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 

The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 

Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, 

That like a broken purpose waste in air : 

So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 

Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 

Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 

Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound. 

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet ; 

Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 

The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 

And murmuring of innumerable bees. 

Two versions of "Sweet and Low", were made and were sent to Emily 
Sellwood to choose which should be published. The unpublished version 
runs thus : 

Bright is the moon on the deep. 

Bright are the cliffs in her beam. 
Sleep, my little one, sleep ! 

Look, he smiles, and opens his hands. 

He sees his father in distant lands, 

And kisses him there in a dream. 
Sleep, sleep. 

Father is over the deep, 
Father will come to thee soon, 
Sleep, my pretty one, sleep ! 
Father will come to his babe in the nest. 
Silver sails all out of the West, 
Under the silver moon, 
Sleep, sleep ! 

The letters which he received then show that these songs added in 1850 
— " As thro' the land at eve we went," " Sweet and low," " The splendour 
falls," " Tears, idle tears," " Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums," 
"Home they brought her warrior dead," "Ask me no more" — had 
especially moved the great heart of the people. The following notes on 
the poem were left by my father : — 

In the Prologue the "Tale from mouth to mouth" was a game which I have 
more than once played when I was at Trinity College, Cambridge, with my brother 
undergraduates. Of course, if he "that inherited the tale" had not attended very 
carefully to his predecessors, there were contradictions ; and if the story were 



xxxii LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

historical, occasional anachronisms. In defence of what some have called the too 
poetical passages, it should be recollected that the poet of the party was requested 
to "dress the tale up poetically," and he was full of the "gallant and heroic 
chronicle." Some of my remarks on passages in the "Princess" have been 
published by Dawson of Canada, who copied them from a letter which I wrote to 
him criticizing his study of the " Princess." The child is the link through the parts 
as shown in the songs which are the best interpreters of the poem. Before the 
first edition came out, I deliberated with myself whether I should put songs between 
the separate divisions of the poem ; again I thought that the poem would explain 
itself, but the public did not see the drift. The first song I wrote was named 
"The Losing of the Child." The child is sitting on the bank of the river and 
playing with flowers ; a flood comes down ; a dam has been broken thro' — the 
child is borne down by the flood; the whole village distracted; after a time the 
flood has subsided ; the child is thrown safe and sound again upon the bank ; and 
there is a chorus of jubilant women. 

After the publication of " The Princess " he went for tours in Cornwall 
and Ireland. He mixed with many classes of Irish, and often spoke of 
them " as not only feudal but oriental, loving those in authority to have 
the iron hand in the silken glove." 

Marriage, " In Memoriam," and Farringford. 

The year 1850 was the golden year of my father's life. He published 
" In Memoriam," at which he had worked through seventeen years. He 
had written the following section within two months of Arthur Hallam's 
death: "Fair ship, that from the Italian shore." The poem appeared 
without his name. The critics blundered. One declared that " much 
shallow art was spent on the tenderness shown to an Amaryllis of the 
Chancery Bar." Another that " these touching lines^.j^vidently come 
from the full heart of the widow of a military man." Throughout " In 
Memoriam " my father muses on the problems of Life, Death, Knowledge, 
and Religion, and expresses his firm faith in the love of God, in the 
" Christ that is to be," in Free-will, and in the life after death of the 
human soul. On such high subjects as "the blessing of honest belief, 
the blessing also of ' honest doubt,' the supreme majesty of veracity and 
every form of truth, the grandeur of the Creator's living energy in the 
Universe, as part by part revealed by science, in whose multiplied and 
advancing triumphs the poet personally exulted ; again, in the sacredness 
and the perfect beauty of human love, wedded and unwedded, brotherly 
and sisterly, filial and parental, on such high themes — who, I ask, since 
Dante, has written, I do not say with more piety or more tenderness, but 
with more manliness and more power ? " ^ He once said to Tyndall, who 
agreed with him, " No evolutionist is able to explain the mind of man, or 
how any possible change of physiological tissue can produce conscious 
^ The Master of Trinity (April 1913). 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxxiii 

thought." As to the different forms of Christianity, he observed with 
Sara Coleridge that " the whole logical truth is not the possession of any 
one party, that it exists in fragments among the several parties, and that 
much of it is yet to be developed." " Forsitan uno itinere non potest 
perveniri ad tam grande secretum." He expressed his conviction that 
" Christianity v/ith its divine Morality, without the central figure and life 
of Christ, the Son of Man, would become cold " ; that this passionate 
" creed of creeds had done infinitely more for our poor common humanity 
than any preceding religion or philosophy." According to Jowett " it was 
in the spirit of an old saint or mystic, and not of a modern rationalist, that 
Tennyson habitually thought and felt about the nature of Christ. Never 
did the slightest shadow of ridicule or profaneness mix itself up with the 
applications which he made of Scripture, although he was quite aware that 
there were many points on which he differed widely from the so-called 
Evangelical, or High-Church world, and he always strove to keep religion 
free from the taint of ridicule." "What 'In Memoriam ' did for us/' 
writes Professor Henry Sidgwick, " for me at least, was to impress on 
us the ineffaceable and ineradicable conviction that humanity will not 
and cannot acquiesce in a godless world. If the possibility of a 
godless world is excluded, the faith thus restored is for the poet un- 
questionably a form of Christian faith : there seems to him, then, no reason 
for doubting that ' the sinless years that breathed beneath the Syrian 
blue,' and the marvel of the life continued after the bodily death, were a 
manifestation of the ' immortal love ' which by faith we embrace as the 
essence of the Divine Nature." " I do not know," Stopford Brooke says, 
"in any of the earlier poems, not even in 'Maud,' anything on a higher 
range of passionate imagination and breathing more of youthful ardour 
weighted with dignity of thought than a song like this : 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks. 

Or take this other where the loveliness of Nature is met and received with 
joy by that receptive spirit of delight in a sensuous impression which a 
young man feels ; and where the depths of the feeling has wrought the 
short poem into an intensity of unity : each verse linked like bell to bell in 
a chime to the verse before it, and all swinging into a triumphant close : 
swelling as they go from thought to thought, and finally rising from the 
landscape of the earth to the landscape of infinite space. Can anything 
be more impassioned and yet more solemn ! It has the swiftness of youth, 
and the nobleness of manhood's sacred joy : 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 

Of evening over brake and bloom 
And meadow, slowly breathing bare 



xxxiv LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odour streaming far. 

To where in yonder orient star 
A hundred spirits whisper ' Peace.' 

" Vision after vision of Nature, each of a greater beauty and sentiment 
than its predecessor, succeed one another, and each of them is fitted to a 
corresponding exaltation of the emotions of the soul. Take ' Calm and 
still night on yon great plain,' ' By night we linger'd on the lawn,' and 
the storm (he loved tempestuous days) : 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 

The cattle huddled on the lea ; 

And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 
The sunbeam strikes along the world." 

" It must be remembered," my father notes, "that ' In Memoriam' is a 
poem, not an actual biography. It is founded on our friendship, on the 
engagement of Arthur Hallam to my sister, on his sudden death at 
Vienna, just before the time fixed for their marriage, and on his burial at 
Clevedon Church. The poem concludes with the marriage of my youngest 
sister Cecilia. It was meant to be a kind of Divina Conwiedia^ ending 
with happiness. The sections were written at many different places, and 
as the phases of our intercourse came to my memory and suggested them. 
I did not write them with any view of weaving them into a whole, or for 
publication, until I found that I had written so many. The different 
moods of sorrow as in a drama are dramatically given, and my conviction 
that fear, doubts, and suffering will find answer and relief only through 
faith in a God of love, ' I ' is not always the author speaking of himself, 
but the voice of the human race speaking through him. After the 
death of A, H. H., the divisions of the poem are made by First Xmas 
Eve (Section xxviii,). Second Xmas (lxxviii.), Third Xmas Eve 
(CIV. and cv,, etc). I myself did not see Clevedon till years after 
the burial of A. H, H, Jan. 3, 1834, and then in later editions of 
* In Memoriam ' I altered the word ' chancel,' which was the word used by 
Mr. Hallam in his Memoir, to ' dark church.' As to the localities in 
which the poems were written, some were written in Lincolnshire, some 
in London, Essex, Gloucestershire, Wales, anywhere where I happened to 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxxv 

be. "And as for the metre of ' In Memoriam' I had no notion till 1880 
that Lord Herbert of Cherbury had written his occasional verses in the 
same metre. I believed myself the originator of the metre, until after ' In 
Memoriam ' came out, when some one told me that Ben Jonson and Sir 
Philip Sidney had used it." 

With this year of 1 850 came to him at once glory, fame, and competence, 
and the joy and peace of marrying, at Shiplake on the Thames (June 13), the 
wife for whom he had so long waited. "The peace of God came into my 
life when I married her." And let me quote here from my Memoir about 
her, although as a son I cannot allow myself full utterance. " It was she 
who became my father's adviser in literary matters ; ' I am proud of her 
intellect,' he wrote. With her he always discussed what he was working 
at ; she transcribed his poems ; to her and to no one else he referred for a 
final criticism before publishing. She, with her ' tender, spiritual nature,' 
and instinctive nobility of thought, was always by his side, a ready, 
cheerful, courageous, wise, and sympathetic counsellor. It was she who 
shielded his sensitive spirit from the annoyances and trials of life, 
answering (for example) the innumerable letters addressed to him from 
all parts of the world. By her quiet sense of humour, by her selfless 
devotion, by ' her faith as clear as the heights of the June-blue heaven,' 
she helped him also to the utmost in the hours of his depression and of 
his sorrow ; and to her he wrote two of the most beautiful of his shorter 
lyrics, ' Dear, near and true,' and the dedicatory lines which prefaced his 
last volume, ' The Death of CEnone.' " 

Five months after his marriage my father was offered the poet-laureate- 
ship by the Queen, for the Prince Consort had read "In Memoriam " 
and dehghted in it. Curiously enough the night before the offer came he 
dreamt that the Prince had kissed him on the cheek, and that he had 
remarked, " Very kind, but very German." He took a day to consider the 
offer^ and at the last wrote two letters, one accepting and one refusing, 
and determined to make up his mind after consulting with his friends. 
He hated being thrust forward before the public. One evening at Bath 
House Milnes had wished to introduce him to the Duke of Wellington. 
" No," said he, " why should the great Duke be bothered by a poor poet 
like me } " When he had been officially proclaimed poet-laureate he 
complained that he was thenceforward inundated with letters, that he 
could not possibly answer them all, but at any rate, in many an instance, 
his correspondence bears witness to his open-hearted kindness and liberality. 
Moxon asked him to publish a fresh volume of poems. The seventh edition 
of collected poems appeared in 185 i with the dedication to the Queen : 

Rever'd, beloved — O you that hold 
A nobler office upon earth 
Than arms or power of brains or birth 

Could give the warrior Kings of old. 



xxxvi LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

A little later were published National So7tgs, " Rise, Britons, 
Rise," "The Third of February,'' "Hands all Round." One of the 
deepest desires of his life was to help the realisation of the ideal of 
an Empire by the most intimate union of every part of our British 
Empire. He believed that every part so united would, with a heightening 
of individuality to each member, give such strength, greatness, and stability 
to the whole as would make our Empire a faithful and fearless leader in 
all that is good throughout the world. Dr. Warren writes : 

English of the English, emphatically a national poet, he was at the same time 
cosmopolitan in his sympathies, ^ and no modern English poet is so well known 
abroad, as the translations of Morel, of Freiligrath, Strodtmann, Feis and others, of 
Saladino Saladini and D. Vicente De Arana, or the remarkable recent book of Dr. 
Roman Dyboski on Tennyson'' s Language and Style^ may testify. At his centenary, 
his work received, in such articles as those of M. Emile Faguet, M. Firmin Roz, 
and M. Auguste Filon, a recognition in France yet more striking than that in 
England. So, again, no English poet of recent times has met with so much 
attention across the seas, notably from writers like Stedman, Genung and Van Dyke 
in the United States, and Dr. S. Dawson and others in our own colonies. 

Husband and wife set up housekeeping at Warninglid, Sussex, looking 
on the South Downs ; next year they went to Chapel House, Twickenham, 
where I was born. Their first child had been born dead. At the time 
my father wrote : 

It was Easter Sunday, and at his birth I heard the great roll of the organ, of the 
uplifted psalm (in the chapel adjoining the house). Dead as he was I felt proud of 
him. To-day when I write this down the remembrance of it rather overcomes me : 
but I am glad that I have seen him, dear little nameless one that hast lived tho' 
thou hast never breathed, I, thy father, love thee and weep over thee, tho' thou 
hast no place in the Universe. Who knows? It may be that thou hast. . . . 
God's will be done. 

My father and mother later took a tour in Italy, and the poem of the 
"Daisy" was written to commemorate it. In 1852 he published his 
great " Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington." He also attended 
a levee at Court in the Court suit that Wordsworth wore, and first became 
acquainted with his true friend of later years, the Duke of Argyll. " I am 
so glad to know you," said the Duke. " You won't find much in me after 
all," was the blunt rejoinder. 

In 1853 they entered into the occupation of Farringford in the Isle of 
Wight as their permanent home. When they had first "gazed from the 

^ For example he felt deep sympathy with Poland and Montenegro. His sonnets 
entitled "Poland" and "Montenegro" have been translated over and over again in 
different languages, and have been published and republished in these two countries ; 
and the Montenegrins have more than once placed wreaths on his grave in Westminster 
Abbey. For a Polish appreciation see Mme, Modjeska's Memories and Impressions, 
pp. 397-8. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxxvii 

drawing-room window out through the distant wreath of trees towards a 
sea of Mediterranean blue, with rosy capes beyond, the down on the left 
rising above the foreground of undulating park, golden-leaved elms and 
chestnuts, and red-stemmed pines," they agreed that they must if possible 
have that view to live with. On taking up their abode there they at 
once settled to a country life, looking after their farm and garden, and 
tending the poor and sick of the village. 

His Love of Children. " Maud." 

The years spent at Farringford were the happiest of my father's life. 
In March 1854 another son, Lionel, was born. Of babies he would say : 
" There is something gigantic about them. The wide-eyed wonder of a 
babe has a majesty in it which as children they lose. They seem to be 
prophets of a mightier race." To his own children he was devoted, took 
part in their pastimes and amusements, and was their constant companion. 
I remember his emphatic recitation in those far-off years of 



of 

of 
and of 



" Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, 
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine," 

"Si le roi m'avait donne 
Paris sa grand' villa," 

"Ye Mariners of England," 

" The Burial of Sir John Moore," 



and my father's words spoken long ago still dwell with me, "A truthful 
man generally has all virtues." 

He taught us to appreciate beauty in Nature and in Art. Drama, 
simple music, painting, sculpture, and architecture, all had their message 
for him. The first Latin I learned from him was Horace's O fons 
Bandusiae^ and the first Greek the beginning of the Iliad.^ Before this 
he liked to make us learn and repeat ballads, and simple poems about 
Nature, but he would never teach us his own poems, or allow us to get 
them by heart. In the summer as children we generally passed through 
London to Lincolnshire, and he would take us for a treat to Westminster 
Abbey, the Zoological Gardens, the Tower of London, the Elgin Marbles at 
the British Museum, or the National Gallery. The last he much delighted 
in, and would point us out the various excellences of different masters ; 
he always led the way first of all to the " Raising of Lazarus " by Sebastian 
del-Piombo, and to Titian's " Bacchus and Ariadne." A favourite saying of 
his was, " Make the lives of children as beautiful and happy as possible." 

^ See article by H. G. Dakyns in Te?it?Yson and His Friends. 



xxxviii LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

He occasionally travelled in the summer, visited his friends or enter- 
tained them in his own house. With FitzGerald he began to learn Persian 
in order to read Hafis in the original. F. D. Maurice among others came, 
and my father welcomed him to his home in the well-known poem : 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight : 

"Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

The first important poem which was written at Farringford was " The 
Charge of the Light Brigade," then (1855) "Maud, or The Madness" — 
called now the most passionate of love poems, although at first denounced 
as too morbid and too melancholy to be tolerated. • 

" This poem is a little Hamlet^ the history of a morbid poetic soul, 
under the blighting influence of a recklessly speculating age. He is the 
heir of madness, an egotist with the makings of a cynic, raised to sanity by 
a pure and holy love which elevates his whole nature, passing from the 
height of triumph to the lowest depths of misery, driven into madness by 
the loss of her whom he has loved, and, when he has at length passed 
through the fiery furnace, and has recovered his reason, giving himself up 
to work for the good of mankind through the unselfishness born of his 
great passion." My father pointed out that even Nature at first presented 
itself to the man in sad visions. 

And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 

The " blood-red heath," too, is an exaggeration of colour, and his suspicion 
that all the world is against him is as true to his nature as the mood when 
he is " fantastically merry." " The peculiarity of this poem," my father 
added, " is that different phases of passion in one person take the place of 
different characters." 

The writing of " Maud " was largely due to that friend of friends. Sir 
John Simeon. Looking through a volume of manuscripts one day at 
Farringford Sir John came upon the lyric : 

O that 'twere possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again ! 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xxxix 

When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 

*' Why do you keep those beautiful lines unpublished ? " he said. My 
father told him that the poem had appeared years before in The Tribute^ 
but that it was really intended to be part of a dramatic poem. Sir John 
gave him no peace until he had woven a story round these lines, and so 
" Maud" came into being. I shall never forget his last reading of it at 
Aldworth on August 24, 1892. He was sitting in his high-backed chair, 
fronting a southern window, which looks over the groves and yellow 
corn-fields of Sussex toward the long line of south downs that stretches 
from Arundel to Hastings (his high-domed Rembrandt-like head outlined 
against the sunset-clouds seen through the western window). His voice, 
low and calm in every-day life, capable of delicate and manifold inflection, 
but with " organ tones " of great power and range, thoroughly brought 
out the drama of the poem. 

From the proceeds of the sale of "Maud" he was enabled to com- 
plete the purchase of Farringford. In 1854 he visited Glastonbury and 
Wells, in 1855 the New Forest and Oxford where he was made a D.C.L., 
in 1856 Wales, in 1858 Norway, in 1859 Portugal, in i860 Cornwall, 
and in 1861 the Pyrenees, where he wrote "All along the Valley," in 
memory of his sojourn in the Valley of Cauteretz with Arthur Hallam more 
than thirty years before. 

"The Idylls of the King." 

In 1859 he brought out his first four " Idylls of the King" — "Enid," 
" Vivien," "Elaine," and " Guinevere," — which aroused as much enthusiasm 
as " Maud " had provoked resentment. Ten thousand copies were sold 
in the week of publication. Thackeray sends a letter to him : 

Reading the lines (" Blow, bugle, blow ") which only one man in the world could 
have written, I thought about the horns of Elfland blowing in full strength, and 
Arthur in gold armour and Guinevere in gold hair, and all those heroes and knights 
and beauties and purple landscapes and misty gray lakes in which you have made me 
live. They seem like facts to me, since about three weeks ago (three weeks or a 
month was it ?) when I read the book. It is on the table yonder, and I don't like 
somehow to disturb it, but the delight and gratitude ! 

Some of his friends, however, like Ruskin, complained that " so great 
power ought not to be spent on visions of things past but on the living 
present," and that they felt " the art and the finish a little more than they 
liked to feel it." Swinburne, himself " a reed through which all things blow 



xl LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

into music," although dissatisfied with the "scheme "of the " Idylls," admired 
their " exquisite magnificence of style." And Edward FitzGerald wrote : 
" I feel how pure, noble, and holy your work is, and whole phrases, lines, 
and sentences will abide with me, and, I am sure, with men after me." 
"I believe," my father said to me, "the existence of King Arthur 
(500 A.D.) is more or less mythical." He is mentioned in the Welsh 
Bards of the seventh century as "the leader." In the twelfth century 
Geoffrey of Monmouth collected the legends about him as a European 
conqueror in his History of the Britons^ and translated them from 
Celtic into Latin. Wace translated them into French, and added the 
story of the Round Table. "My meaning in the 'Idylls of the King' 
was spiritual. I took the legendary stories of the Round Table as 
illustrations. Arthur was allegorical to me. I intended to represent him 
as the Ideal of the Soul of Man coming in contact with the warring 
elements of the flesh." He continued, " Poetry is like shot silk with many 
glancing colours. Every reader must find his own interpretation accord- 
ing to his ability, and according to his sympathy with the poet." He 
notes, " The personal drift of the Idylls is clear enough. The whole is a 
dream of man coming into practical life and ruined by one sin (the guilty 
love of Launcelot and of Guinevere). Birth is a mystery and Death is a 
mystery, and in the midst lies the table-land of life, and its struggles and 
performances. It is not the history of one man or of one generation, but 
of a whole cycle of generations. The vision of Arthur as I have drawn 
him came upon me when while little more than a boy I first lighted upon 
Malory." He has made the old legends his own, restored the idealism, 
and infused into them a spirit of modern thought and an ethical signifi- 
cance, setting his characters in a rich and varied landscape ; as indeed, 
otherwise, these archaic stories would not have appealed to the modern 
world at large. There is no more reason why he should follow Malory's 
version than that Malory should be true to Walter Map. He felt himself 
justified, in always having pictured Arthur in his parable as the ideal man, 
by such passages as this from Joseph of Exeter : " The old world, knows 
not his peer, nor will the future show us his equal : he alone towers over 
other kings, better than the past ones and greater than those that are 
to be." 

"Undoubtedly," Sir Alfred Lyall writes, "the figure of Arthur — representing 
a warrior-king endowed with the qualities of unselfishness, clemency, generosity, 
and noble trustfulness, yet betrayed by his wife and his familiar friend, forgiving her 
and going forth to die in a last fight against treacherous rebels — has a grandeur and 
a pathos that might well aifect a gravely emotional people. Moreover, the poem is 
a splendidly illuminated Morality." 

The coming of Arthur is on the night of the New Year : when he is 
wedded "the world is white with May" : on a summer night the vision 
of the Holy Grail appears : and the " Last Tournament is in the 



LTFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xli 

following autumn-tide.'' Guinevere flies through the mists of autumn, 
and Arthur's death takes place at midnight in midwinter. The form 
of the "Coming of Arthur" and of the "Passing" is purposely more 
archaic than that of the other Idylls, In 1832 had appeared the first of 
the Arthurian poems in the form of a lyric, " The Lady of Shalott " 
(another version of the story of Launcelot and Elaine), and this was followed 
in 1842 by the other lyrics "Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere," "Sir 
Galahad." The 1842 volume also contained the " Morte d' Arthur," 
written about 1835. In 1869 my father published the "Coming of 
Arthur," "The Holy Grail," and " Pelleas and Ettarre," the volume 
containing also the well-known poems, "Lucretius," "a masterly study 
of the great Roman sceptic," 1 and the second "Northern Farmer" ; in 
1 87 1 "The Last Tournament," in 1872 " Gareth and Lynette," and in 
1885 "Bahn and Balan." Thus he completed the "Idylls of the King" 
in twelve books. The poem regarded as a whole gives his innermost 
being more fully perhaps, though not more truly, than " In Memorianv" 

In "Gareth" the "joy of life in steepness overcome. And victories of 
ascent " lives in the eternal youth of goodness. But in the later " Idylls " the 
allowed sin not only poisons the spring of life in the sinner, but spreads its 
poison through the whole community. In some natures, even among those 
who would " rather die than doubt," it breeds suspicion and want of trust in 
God and man. Some loyal souls are wrought to madness against the 
world. Others, and some among the highest intellects, become the slaves 
of the evil which is at first half-disdained. Tender natures sink under the 
blight, that which is of the highest in them working their death. And in 
some, as faith declines, religion turns from practical goodness and holiness 
to superstition : 

This madness has come on us for our sin. 

These seek relief in selfish spiritual excitement, not remembering that 
man's duty is to forget self in the service of others, and to let visions come 
and go, and that so only will they see " The Holy Thing." In the Idyll 
of " Pelleas and Ettarre," selfishness has turned to open crime ; it is "the 
breaking of the storm " ; nevertheless Pelleas still honours his sacred vow 
to the King and spares the wrong-doers. Whereas in " The Last Tourna- 
ment " the wrong-doer "suffers his doom," and "is cloven thro' the 
brain." We have here the deadly proof of the kinship of all wilful sin, 
murder following adultery in closest relation of cause and consequence, — the 
prelude of the final act of the tragedy which culminates in the temporary 
triumph of evil, the confusion of the moral order, closing in the great 
" Battle of the West." When my father wrote the dedication of " The 
Idylls or Epylls of the King " to the Prince Consort after his death, the 
Queen invited him to visit her. He was much affected by his interview. 

^ Andrew Lang. 
T d 



xlii LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

He told how she stood pale and statue-like before him speaking in a 
quiet, unutterably sad voice. " There M'as a kind of stately innocence 
about her." She said many kind things to him, such as : " Next to 
the Bible ' In Memoriam ' is my comfort." She talked of Hallam, and 
of Macaulay, of Goethe, and of Schiller in connection with the Prince, 
and observed that he was so like the picture of Arthur Hallam in 
" In Memoriam," even to his blue eyes. My father suggested that he 
thought that the Prince would have made a great King ; she answered, 
" He always said that it did not signify whether he did the right thing 
or did not, so long as the right thing was done." 

As will be seen from the letters between my father and the Queen in 
my Memoir of my father there was a very real friendship between them. 
After another interview, November 1883, he wrote to her Majesty, 
" During our conversation I felt the touch of that true friendship which 
binds human beings together, whether they be Kings or cobblers." 

" Enoch Arden," Aldworth, and the Plays. 

My father now wrote more Enghsh Idylls, "The Idylls of the Hearth." 
The story of Enoch Arden the fisherman, who after years of exile comes 
home to find his wife married to another, was given him by the sculptor 
Woolner. At one time of his life he lodged for many months with fisher- 
men in their cottages by the sea. He loved the sea as much as any 
sailor, and knew all its moods whether on the shore or in mid-ocean. 
Hence some of his most successful poems were " Enoch Arden," " The 
Revenge," "Break, Break," "The Sailor Boy," "The Voyage," "Sea 
Dreams." " Enoch Arden " is the most popular of his poems on the 
Continent. In the volume of 1864 were included " Aylmer's Field," 
" Tithonus," " The Northern Farmer," "The Flower," "The Grandmother." 
Edward FitzGerald, after reading "The Northern Farmer," wrote: 

I read on till the " Lincolnshire Farmer" drew tears to my eyes. I was got 
back to the substantial rough-spun Nature I knew ; and the old brute, invested by 
you with the solemn Humour of Humanity, like Shakespeare's Shallaio, became a 
more pathetic phenomenon than the knights who revisit the world in your other 
verse. 

It may be noted that this study of character set the fashion throughout 
Great Britain and America of drawing character-sketches in rough-hewn 
ballads. 

During the summer of 1864 he visited Brittany. In 1865 he visited 
Waterloo and Weimar and Dresden, in 1866 Marlborough, in 1867 Dorset- 
shire and South Devon, in 1868 Tintern Abbey and South Wales. In 
1869 he took a tour in Switzerland. In 1871 he went to North Wales, 
in 1872 to Paris and Grenoble, in 1873 to the Italian Lakes, and in 1874 
to the Pyrenees, which he had last seen in 1861. These tours spurred 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xliii 

him on to work, as is shown by the numerous poems written during those 
years. Meanwhile he received numberless guests, Garibaldi, Owen, 
Tyndall, Huxley, Tourgenieff the Russian novelist. Queen Emma of the 
Sandwich Islands, Longfellow, George Eliot, Gladstone, Jenny Lind, 
Bradley, Montagu Butler, Lady Franklin, Palgrave, Jowett, and the Duke 
of Argyll. Of Garibaldi he spoke with enthusiasm : " He is marvellously 
simple, but in worldly matters he seems to have the divine stupidity 
of a hero." He wrote his impressions of the man as follows to the Duke 
of Argyll : — 

Did you hear Garibaldi repeat any Italian poetry ? I did, for I had heard that he 
himself had made songs and hymns ; and I asked him, " Are you a poet ? " "Yes," 
he said quite simply, whereupon I spouted to him a bit of Manzoni's great ode, 
that which Gladstone translated. I don't know whether he relished it, but he 
began immediately to speak of Ugo Foscolo, and quoted, with great fervour, a 
fragment of his " I Sepolcri," beginning with " II navigante che veleggio," etc. 
and ending with " Delle Parche il canto," which verses he afterwards wrote out 
for me : and they certainly seem to be fine, whatever the rest of the poem may be. 
I have not yet read it but mean to do so, for he sent me Foscolo's Poesie from 
London; and in return I sent him the "Idylls of the King," which I do not 
suppose he will care for. What a noble human being ! I expected to see a hero 
and I was not disappointed. One cannot exactly say of him what Chaucer says of 
the ideal knight, "As meke he was of port as is a maid"; he is more majestic 
than meek, and his manners have a certain divine simplicity in them, such as I 
have never witnessed in a native of these islands, among men at least, and they are 
gentler than those of most young maidens whom I know. He came here and 
smoked his cigar in my little room and we had a half hour's talk in English, tho' I 
doubt whether he understood me perfectly, and his meaning was often obscure to 
me. I ventured to give him a little advice : he denied that he came with any 
political purpose to England, merely to thank the English for their kindness to him, 
and the interest they had taken in himself and all Italian matters, and also to 
consult Ferguson about his leg. Stretching this out he said, "There's a campaign 
in me yet." When I asked if he returned thro' France, he said he would never set 
foot on the soil of France again. I happened to make use of this expression, 
"That fatal debt of gratitude owed by Italy to Napoleon." " Gratitude," he said ; 
"hasn't he had his pay? his reward? If Napoleon were dead I should be glad, 
and if I were dead he would be glad." These are slight chroniclings, but I 
thought you would like to have them. He seemed especially taken with my two 
little boys. 

He now began to study Hebrew with a view to making a metrical 
version of "Job." One day he asked Jowett to give him a literal transla- 
tion of one of the verses. "But I can't read Hebrew," said Jowett. 
"What!" he exclaimed, "you the Priest of a great religion and can't 
read your own sacred books." On April 23, 1868, Shakespeare's 
birthday, he and his friend. Sir John Simeon, laid the foundation of his 
house, Aldworth, in Sussex, which he afterwards always inhabited in the 
summer to avoid the stream of tourists who invaded him in the Isle of 



xliv LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

Wight. We read in my mother's Journal his expression of a wish that, 
if ever the shields on the mantelpiece in his study were emblazoned, they 
should be emblazoned with arms or devices representing the great 
modern poets, Dante, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, and Words- 
worth, and if there had been another shield he would have added Moliere. 
Aubrey de Vere wrote of the new home : 

The second home was as well chosen as the first. It lifted England's great 
poet to a height from which he could gaze on a large portion of that English land 
which he loved so well, see it basking in its most affluent summer beauty, and 
only bounded by the "inviolate sea." Year after year he trod its two stately 
terraces with men the most noted of their time, statesmen, warriors, men of letters, 
science and art, some of royal race, some famous in far lands, but none more 
welcome to him than the friends of his youth. Nearly all of those were taken from 
him by degrees ; but many of them stand successively recorded in his verse. The 
days which I passed there yearly with him and his were the happiest days of each 
year. They will retain a happy place in my memory during whatever short period 
my life may last ; and the sea murmurs of Freshwater will blend with the sighing 
of the woods around Aldworth, for me, as for many more worthy, a music, if 
mournful, yet full of consolation. 

In 1872 some prominent politicians were advocating the breaking of 
the connection between Great Britain and Canada. My father was 
roused to indignation, and wrote in his " Epilogue to the Idylls of the 
King " : 

And that true North, whereof we lately heard 
A strain to shame us "keep you to yourselves ; 
So loyal is too costly ! friends — your love 
Is but a burthen ; loose the bond, and go." 
Is this the tone of empire ? here the faith 
That made us rulers ? this, indeed, her voice 
And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont 
Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven ? 

The following letter from Lord Dufferin (February 25, 1873) tells of 
the happy effect these words had in Canada : — 

The assertion that their connection with Great Britain weakens their self- 
confidence or damps the ardour of Canadian Nationality is a pure invention. 
Amongst no people have I ever met more contentment with their general condition, 
a more legitimate faith in all those characteristics which constitute their nationality, 
or a firmer faith in the destinies in store for them. Your noble words have struck 
responsive fire from every heart ; they have been published in every newspaper, 
and have been completely effectual to heal the wounds occasioned by the senseless 
language of the Times. 

In 1874 he and Sir James Knowles founded the Metaphysical Club, 
the object of the Society being that those who were ranged on the side of 
Faith should meet and discuss with those ranged on the side of Unfaith. 
During one of the preliminary meetings, ci propos of some angry discussion, 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xlv 

my father said humorously, " Modern science at all events ought to have 
taught men to separate light from heat," and this was adopted as the 
rule of the I Society. At this time he was elected an Honorary Fellow of 
Trinity College, Cambridge. 

" Queen Mary," the first play of what he called his " historical trilogy " 
("Harold," " Becket," and "Queen Mary"), was begun about 1873 and 
published in 1 87 5. " This trilogy of plays," he noted, " portrays the making 
of England." In " Harold " (1876), that " Tragedy of Doom," we have the 
great conflict between Danes, Saxons, and Normans for supremacy, the 
awakening of the English people and clergy from the slumber into which 
they had for the most part fallen, and the forecast of the greatness of 
our composite race. In "Becket" (printed 1879, published 1884) the 
struggle is between the Crown and the Church for predominance, a struggle 
which continued for many centuries. In " Mary " are described the final 
downfall of Roman Catholicism in England, and the dawning of a new 
age ; for after the era of priestly domination comes the era of the freedom 
of the individual. "In 'The Foresters,'" (1892) he notes, "I have 
sketched the state of the people in another great transition period of the 
making of England, when the barons sided with the people and eventually 
won for them the Magna Charta." 

To begin publishing plays for the stage after he was sixty-five years 
of age was thought to be a hazardous experiment. He had, however, 
always taken the liveliest interest in the theatre ; and he bestowed 
infinite trouble on his dramas. He was quite alive to the fact that for him 
to attempt dramatic work would be at first unpopular, since he was then 
mainly regarded as an Idyllic, or as a Lyric, poet. But Spedding, a first- 
rate Shakespearian scholar, George H. Lewes, George Eliot, and Irving 
admired his plays and encouraged him to persevere in spite of all dis- 
couragement, especially praising the faithful and subtle delineation of 
character and the "great dramatic moments." He felt that he had the 
power ; and even at the age of fourteen he had written plays which were 
extraordinary for a boy, full of vivid contrasts and striking scenic effects. 
To meet the conditions of the modern theatre my father studied many 
modern plays. He had also refreshed his mind with reading "Job" in 
the Hebrew, for which he had the highest admiration, and the dramas of 
Aeschylus and Sophocles, which were to him full of reality and moral 
beauty. All his life he enjoyed discovering the causes of historical and 
social movements, and had a strong desire to reverse unfair judgments, 
and an eager delight in the analysis of human motive. " Queen Mary," 
"The Cup," "The Falcon," "Becket," and "The Foresters" were all 
more or less successful on the stage, and it seems to me that some of 
his finest work is to be found in them. "Becket" is, as my father 
recognised, " loosely constructed," but Irving wrote that it was " a finer 
play than ' King John,' " and said that it was a mistake to imagine that he 



xlvi LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

" had made " " Becket," for this drama, especially the closing act, was 
"an inspiration." That and "The Cup" were two of Irving's four 
great popular triumphs. For a while, indeed, original poetic drama was 
restored by the poet and the actor to the English stage. 

It was interesting to my father to learn the impression made by 
" Becket " upon Roman Catholics. He first asked the opinion of his 
neighbour at Freshwater, W. G. Ward. He could not have asked a 
more candid, truth-speaking critic than this " most generous of all Ultra- 
montanes," who was deeply versed not only in the spirit and doctrine of 
his own Church, but also in the modern French and English drama. 
Ward listened patiently, though convinced " that the whole play would 
be out of his line." At the end of the play he broke out : " Dear me ! 
I did not expect to enjoy it at all. It is splendid ! How wonderfully 
you have brought out the phases of his character as Chancellor and 
Archbishop ! Where did you get it all ? " Struggle for power under one 
guise or another has doubtless been among the most fruitful sources 
of theme for tragedy. During many centuries, as we know, " spiritual 
power," clothed in earthly panoply, seemed to most men to be the one 
embodiment of the Divine Power. What struck those who saw the play 
on the stage was the clear and impressive manner in which he had 
brought out Becket's feeling that in accepting the Archbishopric he had 
changed masters, that he was not simply advanced to a higher service of 
the same liege lord, but that he had changed his former lord paramount, 
whose fiery self-will made havoc of his fine intellect, for one of higher 
degree ; and had become a power distinct from, and it might be antagon- 
istic to, the king. 

His Life in the Country. 

At this period of his life my father would tramp over hill and dale, with 
his crook-handled stick, accompanied by my brother, myself, or a friend, and 
by a dog, not caring if the weather were fair or foul, every now and then 
stopping in his rapid walk to give point to an argument or to an anecdote. 
When alone with me he would often chant a poem that he was composing, 
and add fresh lines. There was the same keen eye as of old for strange 
birds or flowers, and, as of old, the same love of fair landscape. If 
a tourist were seen coming towards him he would flee ; for many would 
recognise from a distance his broad-brimmed wide-awake (the kind of hat 
that Carlyle, Sir Henry Taylor, and others of his contemporaries wore) 
and his short blue cape with velvet collar, and would deliberately make 
for him in order to put some question. His hours were quite regular. 
He breakfasted at eight, lunched at two, dined at seven. At dessert, if 
alone, he would read to himself, or if friends were in the house he would 
sit with them for an hour or so, and entertain them with varied talk. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xlvii 

He worked chiefly in the morning over his pipe, or in the evening 
after his pint of port, also over his pipe. Rare books or books with 
splendid bindings he never cared for ; yet he treasured his first edition of 
Spenser's Fae?'ie Queene, and his second edition of Paradise Lost. He 
would read over and over again his favourite authors, and his delight was 
genuine when he came across a new author who " seemed to have some- 
thing in him.'' He was fond of simple music — Beethoven's songs, and 
English, Scotch, and Irish ballads. He was not unfrequently abstracted 
in mood for days while he was composing, which made him appear brusque 
to strangers, but alone with his family he was never so happy as when 
engaged on a great subject. His very directness and simplicity, moreover, 
caused him sometimes to be misunderstood. With strangers, doubtless, 
he was shy at first, owing mostly to his short- sight, though none could be 
more genial when he thawed. No one could have been more tolerant of 
or more gracious to dull people ; and out of his imaginative large-hearted- 
ness he usually invested every one with higher qualities than he or she 
possessed. As Jowett observed, " He would sit by a very commonplace 
person, telling stories with the most high-bred courtesy, endless stories 
not too high or too low for everyday conversation." Frederick Locker 
thus describes the lighter side of his nature : " Balzac's remark that 
' dans tout homme de genie il y a un enfant ' may find its illustration in 
Tennyson, He is the only grown-up human being that I know of who 
habitually thinks aloud. His humour is of the dryest, it is admirable. . . . 
He tells a story excellently, and has a catching laugh. There are people 
who laugh because they are shy or disconcerted, or for lack of ideas . . . 
only a few because they are happy or amused, or perhaps triumphant. 
Tennyson has an entirely natural, and a very kindly laugh." He had 
the passion of a scientist for facts. His talk travelled over a vast range 
of subjects, his dignity and repose of manner, his low musical voice, and 
the power of his magnetic eye keeping the attention riveted. With the 
country-folk he loved to converse ; especially seeking out the poor ^/^ men, 
from whom he always tried to ascertain their thoughts upon death and 
the future life. 

His afternoons he generally spent on one of our smaller lawns, 
surrounded by birch and different sorts of pine and fir and cypress, after 
the fashion of separate green parlours. Here he would read the daily 
papers or some book to my mother lying out in her sofa chair, or would 
receive friends from the neighbourhood, or would talk to guests staying in 
the house. 

Friends, the Peerage, Lionel's Death. 

My mother was seriously ill in 1875, ^^^ I was summoned home from 
Cambridge. I became my father's secretary, and stayed with him 



xlviii LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 



continuously until his death. In 1876 we visited Edward Fitz Gerald at 
Woodbridge, and Gladstone at Hawarden. We found Edward FitzGerald 
in his garden at Little Grange among his papers, and he and my father 
talked of the old days. They reverted, of course, to their favourite 
Crabbe, my father laying stress on his " sledge-hammer lines," and Fitz- 
Gerald telling how he (Crabbe), when a chaplain in the country, felt an 
irresistible longing to see the sea, mounted a horse suddenly, rode thirty 
miles to the coast, saw it, and rode back comforted. They also referred to 
Thackeray, whose work my father called " so delicious, so mature " ; while 
Fitz said of him, " I hardly dare take down Thackeray's early books, 
they are so great, it is like waking the thunder." At Hawarden the 
conversation between my father and Gladstone ranged over Dante, 
" Harold," Gladstone's late speech about remitting the income-tax, 
modern morality, the force of public opinion, the evils of materialism, and 
the new Biblical criticism. When we were in London, Ruskin, Browning, 
and Renan visited us, and we paid a visit to Lord Russell at Pembroke 
Lodge. " The craven fear of being great " my father felt was among the 
besetting sins of certain English statesmen, and in reply to this Lord 
Russell cried aloud that there must be no niggardliness with regard to 
armaments. They were both convinced that " if our colonies could be 
welded with the United Kingdom into one Imperial whole, we should be able 
to stand alone." General Gordon, to whom my father's poems were after- 
wards a comfort and delight in those last days at Khartoum, came to lunch 
with us. Having learnt that we had no guests he glided spirit-like into the 
dining-room where we were already seated. Going up straight to my father 
he said in a solemn voice, " Mr. Tennyson, I want you to do something for 
the young soldiers. You alone are the man who can do it. We want train- 
ing-homes for them all over England." In consequence the Gordon Home 
was initiated by my father after Gordon's death and in his memory. Two or 
three times we met George Eliot in town, and my father told her that the 
flight of Hetty in Adam Bede and Thackeray's gradual breaking down of 
Colonel Newcome were the two most pathetic things in modern prose 
fiction. We often saw Carlyle. My father would observe, " Carlyle and 
Mrs. Carlyle on the whole enjoyed life together, else they would not have 
chaffed one another so heartily." One day I remember Carlyle putting 
his hands on Alfred, my brother Lionel's son, and saying solemnly " Fair 
fall thee, little man, in this world and the next." During 1877 my brother 
visited Victor Hugo in Paris, and my father addressed to him the sonnet 
"Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance." 1 To which Hugo replied, "I 
believe in Divine Unity. I love all the peoples, and admire your noble 
poetry." In 1878 my father renewed his acquaintance with Ireland, 
going to Westport, Galway, and Killarney. In 1879 my uncle, Charles 
Tennyson Turner, died. The death of this favourite brother profoundly 
^ He admired Alfred de Mussel as an artist more than Victor Hugo. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON xlix 

affected my father ; he began to hear ghostly mysterious voices all round 
him. Dr. Andrew Clark ordered him abroad, so we journeyed in June 
1880 to Venice, and the journey did in effect restore his health : while at 
Sirmio, Catullus's " all-but-island." he wrote the touching lines " Frater 
Ave atque Vale." At the close of 1880 he published Ballads and 
Other Poems ^ which had a large sale, " Rizpah " and " The Revenge " and 
"The Defence of Lucknow" being among the most popular of his poems. 
Then came in 1881 and 1883 the deaths of his old friends Spedding and 
FitzGerald. 

Gone into the darkness, that full light 
Of friendship ! Past in sleep away 
By night into the deeper night ! 
The deeper night ? A clearer day 
Than our poor twilight dawn on earth. 

In 1 88 1 he strongly advocated the federation of Australia, and wrote 
to the Australian statesman, Sir Henry Parkes : " I always feel with the 
Empire, and I read with great interest of these first steps in Federation." 
He looked forward to Australian Federation as the prelude to some sort 
of Imperial Federation. Previously he had written to Mr. Dudley Adams 
of Sydney : " Perhaps some day one of the dreams of my life may be 
realised, and England and her colonies be as truly one Empire as the 
counties of England are one kingdom, the aims of the Empire still higher 
than those of the kingdom. But this will not be in my own time, I fear. 
The strife of party must have outworn itself, and the faith of the world 
have shaped itself into one great simple creed before the Great Sequel." 

In 1883 we cruised with Gladstone in the Pembroke Castle to Copen- 
hrigen — thousands of people lining the shore as we steamed off from Barrow, 
and cheering for "Gladstone" and "Tennyson." The friends agreed not 
to talk on politics, about which they disagreed, and the conversation often 
fell on Dante, Goethe, Milton, Shakespeare, and the English poets and 
prose writers. "No one," said Gladstone, " since yEschylus could have 
written The Bride of Lammermobr." My father was inclined to think 
Old Mortality Scott's greatest novel. Goethe's songs in IVilhelm 
Meister he would recite with highest admiration. " Read the exquisite 
songs of Burns," he would say, — " in shape each of them has the perfec- 
tion of the berry, in light the radiance of the dewdrop." Of Gray he 
said : " Gray in his limited sphere is great, and has a wonderful ear." 
The following he held to be " among the most liquid lines in any 
language " : 

Though he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion 
That the Theban eagle bear, 
Sailing with supreme dominion 
Through the azure deep of air. 



1 LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

During the voyage Gladstone urged upon him to accept a peerage, laying 
stress on the nobility and insight of his political and historical poems, 
and on the greatness of " Guinevere " and of " In Memoriam." He 
was very unwilling to do so. In the end he consented for the sake of 
literature. Moreover, he was grateful to the Queen, who desired that he 
should belong to what he regarded as " the greatest Upper Chamber in 
the world." He looked upon it as foremost in debating power, a stable, 
wise, and moderating influence in these changeful democratic days. He 
wrote : " By Gladstone's advice I have consented to take a peerage, but 
for my own part I shall regret my simple name all my life." On March 
II, 1884, he took his place on the cross-benches, for he said he "could 
not pledge himself to Party, which is made too much of a god in these 
days." He was in favour of reasonable innovation, and there was no really 
Liberal movement in which he was not in the forefront. Like Burke, he 
had a strong belief in the common-sense and political moderation of the 
British people, but he did not hesitate to express his opinion that " stagna- 
tion is more dangerous than revolution." Mr. Arthur Sidgwick notes 
about his political views : 

It is easy to idealize freedom, revolution, or war ; and the ancients found it easy 
to compose lyrics on kings, athletes, warriors, or other powerful persons. From 
the days of Tyrtaeus and Pindar to Byron, Shelley, and Swinburne, one or other of 
these themes has been the seed of song. But the praise of ordered liberty, of 
settled government, of political moderation, is far harder to idealize in poetry. It 
has been the peculiar aim of Tennyson to be the constitutional, and in this sense the 
national, poet : and it is his peculiar merit and good fortune to have succeeded in 
giving eloquent and forcible expression to the ideas suggested by these aims. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 

To follow flying steps of Truth 
Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 

Must ever shock, like armed foes, 

And this be true, till Time shall close, 
That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 

To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 

But with his hand against the hilt 
Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word, 

Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 
That knowledge takes the sword away. 

The last couplet seems to me — where all is powerful and imaginative — to be a 
master-stroke of terse and pointed expression. It would be hardly an exaggeration 
to say that it sums up human history in regard to one point — namely, the disturbing 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON ll 

and even desolating effect of the new Political Idea, until its triumph comes, 
bringing a higher and more stable adjustment, and a peace more righteous and 
secure. 

His first vote was given for the Extension of the Franchise. He 
writes to Gladstone : 

Aldworth, yi^/j/ 1884. 

I did not write more fully knowing how overwhelmed you are with business 
and anxiety, but you have found time to write to me notwithstanding, and I must 
answer, and you must read my answer or not as you can and will. Here is some- 
thing of my creed. 

The nation is one and includes all ranks of people. 

I take for granted that both Houses are equally anxious to do justice to all. 

Certainly the House of Peers has the prior claim to confidence, being the older 
of the two, and it would be a base abdication, if it forewent its right and its duty to 
reconsider an all-important question. 

The Extension of Franchise I hold to be matter of justice ; the proper time for 
bringing forward the question, matter of opinion. 

Whether this was the proper time or not — Extension I now hold to be an 
accomplished fact. But I think that at this time, and at all times, redistribution is 
necessarily an integral part of a true Franchise Bill. 

For instance, whether the towns are to dominate and absorb the country votes, 
or the country votes to have their due weight, whether loyal North Ireland is to be 
overridden by disloyal South, seem to me all-important facts in the true representa- 
tion of the country. 

(A Franchise Bill, I take it, is intended to facilitate the choice of those supposed 
to be best fitted to understand the needs and the claims of the people, and to devise 
means for satisfying them.) 

If you solemnly pledge yourselves that the Extension Bill shall not become law 
before redistribution has been satisfactorily settled, I am quite willing to vote with 
you, and in proof I come up to town notwithstanding gout. My wife is very 
grateful for your letter, but will not of course trouble you with a reply. — Ever 
yours, Tennyson. 

I am oppressed with gout, and therefore beg you will excuse my employing my 
daughter-in-law's hand. 

On November 14 he forwarded the following lines to the Prime 
Minister : — • 

Steersman, be not precipitate in thine act 
Of steering, for the river here, my friend, 
Parts in two channels, moving to one end — 
This goes straight forward to the cataract : 

That streams about the bend ; 
But tho' the cataract seem the nearer way, 
Whate'er the crowd on either bank may say, 
Take thou the " bend," 'twill save thee many a day. 

Gladstone eventually acted in accordance with the hopes my father had 
expressed, and the Franchise Bill was read a second time without a 
division. 



lii LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

He published his volume, Tiresias a7id Other Poems, at the end of 
1885. Of his autobiographical poem, "The Ancient Sage," dealing, like 
the " De Profundis," with the deeper problems of human life, he wrote : 
" The whole poem is very personal. Those passages about ' Faith ' and 
the ' Passion of the Past ' were more especially my own personal feelings." 
The reception of his poem, " To Virgil," gratified him much, as he liked 
it himself. The year 1886 brought on us a great grief in the death of 
my brother Lionel on his voyage home from India. He said, " The 
thought of Lionel's death tears me to pieces, he was so full of promise, 
and so young." December of this year also saw the pubHcation of "The 
Promise of May," and of the second part of " Locksley Plall " (dated 
1887). The following lines were written about my brother Lionel : — 

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave ; 

Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave ! 

Truth for Truth, and Good for Good ! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just — 

Take the charm "For ever" from them, and they crumble into dust. 

His MS. note on the poem is : 

A dramatic poem, and the Dramatis Persons are imaginary. Since it is so 
much the fashion in these days to regard each poem and story as a story of the 
poet's life or part of it, may I not be allowed to remind my readers of the possi- 
bility, that some event which comes to the poet's knowledge, some hint flashed from 
another mind, some thought or feeling arising in his own, or some mood coming — 
he knows not whence or how — may strike a chord from which a poem evolves its 
life, and that this to other eyes may bear small relation to the thought, or fact, or 
feeling to which the poem owes its birth, whether the tenor be dramatic, or given as 
a parable ? 

Such lines as these, however, gave his own belief : 

Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find, 
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind. 

In 1888 he had a serious attack of gout, from which he recovered 
with difficulty. On his eightieth birthday (1889) he received numberless 
congratulatory letters and telegrams. " I don't know what I have done," 
he said, "to make people feel like that towards me, except that I have 
kept my faith in Immortality." Speaking of Alexander Smith's line, 
" Fame, fame, thou art next to God," he would observe, " Next to God — 
next to the Devil, say I. Fame might be worth having if it helped 
us to do good to a single mortal, but what is it ? merely the pleasure 
of hearing oneself talked of up and down the street." During this year 
he published his Deineter and Other Poems. The general tone of 
criticism was to the effect that " Merlin and the Gleam," and " Demeter," 
and above all " Crossing the Bar," were wonderful productions for a man of 
fourscore years, and rivalled some of the best of his older poems. " Who 
is the Pilot in ' Crossing the Bar ' ? " my father was repeatedly asked. 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON liii 

"The Divine," he answered. "The Pilot has been on board all the 
time, but in the dark I have not seen Him." He was inclined to think 
that the seven of his own best lyrics were, " All along the Valley," 
" Courage, poor Heart of Stone," " Break, Break, Break," " The Bugle 
Song," " Ask me no more," " Crossing the Bar," and the blank-verse 
lyric, " Tears, idle Tears " ; and that his finest simile was — 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might, 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 

" In his latest poems," writes Henry Butcher, " we may miss some- 
thing of the early rapture of his lyric songs, but he is still himself and 
unmistakable, and had he written nothing but the Hnes * To Virgil ' and 
* Crossing the Bar,' he would have surely taken rank among the highest. 
Towards the end of his life the moral and religious content of the poems 
becomes fuller with his deeper sense of the grandeur and pathos of man's 
existence." 

Death of Browning. My Father's Last Work and Days. 

On the day of the publication of Dejuefej" a?id Other Poems my 
father heard of the death of Robert Browning : " so loving and appreciative 
that one cannot but mourn his loss as a friend and as a poet, and one 
feels that one has lost a mine of great thoughts and pure feelings, and 
much else besides." My father said something of this sort about his poetry : 
" He never greatly cares about the glory of words or beauty of form. He 
seldom attempts the marriage of sense with sound, although he shows a 
spontaneous felicity in the adaptation of words to ideas and feelings." 
My father loved Browning and was loved by him. They have now 
emerged from the inevitable posthumous eclipse. They were both 
imaginative thinkers and creators, noble teachers, holding, in the estimation 
of their contemporaries, high and honoured rank in the glorious company 
of great English poets. I never heard talk so brilliant, so deep, so full of 
imagery as when these two friends talked together. Each had a noble faith 
in God, and in the purpose of life ; and in each this faith finds a great utter- 
ance. Their poetic methods, however, were widely different. For example, 
"Tennyson," Sir Alfred Lyall says, "employed his wonderful image-making 
power to illustrate some mental state of emotion, availing himself of the 
mysterious relation between man and his environment, whereby the outer in- 
animate world is felt to be the resemblance and reflection of human moods." 
Browning, on the other hand, was constantly propounding moral and 
intellectual riddles on these "human moods" and the human environ- 
ment. As my father expressed it, " Browning has a great imagination. 
He has a genius for an intricate sort of dramatic composition, and for 
analyzing the human mind in intricate situations." Unlike Browning my 



liv LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

father acted strictly on his rule that " the artist is known by his self- 
limitation." "Only the concise and perfect work," he thought, "would 
last." He was sometimes in the habit of chronicling in four or five words 
or more whatever might strike him as a picture, and weaving a poem 
about this, carrying this poem in his head until it was perfect — or some- 
times " the poem would come " — his words — in one breath of inspiration. 
"Hundreds of lines," as he said, "have been blown up the chimney with 
my pipe smoke, or have been written down and thrown into the fire as 
not being perfect enough." He dehghted in throwing off impromptu 
verses in various metres. Sir Richard Jebb writes as follows about his 
metrical power : — 

As a metrist, he is the creator of a new blank verse, different both from the 
Elizabethan and from the Miltonic. He has known how to modulate it to every 
theme, and to elicit a music appropriate to each ; attuning it in turn to a tender 
and homely grace, as in "The Gardener's Daughter"; to the severe and ideal 
majesty of the antique, as in "Tithonus"; to meditative thought, as in "The 
Ancient Sage "or " Akbar's Dream " ; to pathetic or tragic tales of contemporary 
life, as in " Aylmer's Field" or "Enoch Arden"; or to sustained romantic 
narrative, as in the "Idylls." No English poet has used blank verse with such 
flexible variety, or drawn from it so large a compass of tones ; nor has any 
maintained it so equably on a high level of excellence. In lyric metres Tennyson 
has invented much, and has also shown a rare power of adaptation. Many of his 
lyric measures are wholly his own ; while others have been so treated by him as to 
make them virtually new. 

At the Tennyson centenary celebration by the British Academy (1909) 
Lord Curzoi) said of him : " He (Tennyson) is at least these things — a 
great artist, a great singer, a great prophet, a great patriot, and a great 
Englishman." If I may venture to speak of his special influence upon the 
world, my conviction is that its main and enduring qualities are his 
power of expression, his range of imagination, the perfection of his work- 
rnanship, his strong common-sense, the high purport of his life and work, 
his truthfulness, his humility, his humour, and his broad, open-hearted, 
and helpful sympathy. 

The death of the Irish poet Allingham took away from us yet another 
friend. My father often repeated Allingham's last words : " I see such 
things as you cannot dream of" 

In 1890 the great portrait of my father which hangs in the hall of 
Trinity College, Cambridge, was painted by G. F. Watts at Farringford ; 
and in June of that year he worked at his Lincolnshire poem " The Church- 
warden and the Curate," heartily laughing over the humorous passages. 
Sir Norman Lockyer visited us, and he said of my father, " His mind is 
saturated with astronomy ; since Dante there has never been so great a 
scientific poet." In 1891 he was working at his "Akbar," and wrote his 
majestic hymn to the Sun while cruising in a friend's yacht. The philo- 
sophers of the East had a great fascination for him, and he felt that the 



LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON Iv 

Western religions might learn much from them of spirituality. He took 
much interest in preparing his " Foresters, or Robin Hood " for the stage. 
It proved to be a great success in America — an old-world woodland play, 
"a pastoral without shepherds," and was published in April 1892. 

In 1 89 1 and 1892 he still took long walks at Farringford and 
Aldworth with the President of Magdalen, Jowett, the Bishop of Ripon, 
Arthur Coleridge, Stanford, Dakyns, Henry Butcher, Jebb, and others, 
talking to them vigorously on all sorts of topics, but I heard him quote 
more than once, " The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, and 
time is setting for me, oh ! " On a day in June (1892), on one of his daily 
walks at Farringford, he suddenly felt very tired, a thing unusual with him, 
and sat down. It was one of the first signs of his failing strength, though 
as he walked up the garden he cheered up again, and pointed out the 
splendour of the flowers. On June 29 he partook of the Communion with 
my mother and said : 

It is but a communion, not a mass ; 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast — 

impressing upon the rector (Dr. Merriman) that he could not partake of 
it except in that sense. He said : " My most passionate desire is to 
have a clearer vision of God," and " It is impossible to imagine that the 
Almighty will ask you, when you come before Him in the next life, what 
your particular form of creed was : but the question will rather be, ' Have 
you been true to yourself, and given in My Name a cup of cold water to 
one of these little ones ? ' " 

On June 30 we left Farringford for Aldworth. My father at first took 
his regular walks of two or three miles over Blackdown, but the walks 
dwindled gradually, and he sat more and more in his summer-house. 
On his eighty-third birthday he quoted from Bacon, " It is Heaven upon 
earth to have a man's mind move in Charity, rest in Providence, and turn 
upon the poles of Truth." In September he looked over the proofs of his 
last volume The Death of CEnojie and Other Poejns, many of which had 
been written during this last year, and which my wife had copied out for 
the press. On the 28th he complained of great weakness. He read Job 
and St. Matthew. 

On Tuesday, October 4, he called out, "Where is my Shakespeare? 
I must have my Shakespeare." Then he said, " I want the blinds up, 
I want to see the sky and light." He repeated, " The sky and light ! " 
He asked me, " Have I not been walking with Gladstone in the garden, 
and showing him my trees ? " 

On the day before his death he talked to the doctor about death: "What a 
shadow this life is, and how men cling to what is after all but a small part of the 
great world's life." Then the doctor told him (for his interest was always keen 
"in the lot of lowly men") of aa incident that had happened lately. "A villager, 



Ivi LIFE AND WORK OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

ninety years old, was dying, and had so much pined to see his old bed-ridden wife 
once more that they carried her to where he lay. He pressed his shrunken hand 
upon her hand, and in a husky voice said to her, 'Come soon,' and soon after 
passed away himself." My father murmured "True Faith"; and the tears were 
in his voice. Suddenly he gathered himself together and spoke one word about 
himself to the doctor, " Death ? " The doctor bowed, and he said, " That's well." 

Later he exclaimed, " I have opened it." I cannot tell whether he spoke 
to my mother, referring to the Shakespeare opened by him at 

Hang there like fruit, my soul, 
Till the tree die, 

which he always said were among the tenderest lines in Shakespeare ; or 
whether these lines from one of his own last poems of which he was fond 
were running through his head — 

Fear not thou the hidden purpose of that Power which alone is great. 
Nor the myriad world, His shadov/, nor the silent Opener of the Gate. 

During the evening the full moon flooded the room and the great 
landscape outside with light ; and we watched in solemn stillness. He 
passed away at 1.35 A.M. on Thursday, October 6, his hand resting on 
his Shakespeare, and I spoke over him his own prayer, " God accept him ! 
Christ receive him ! " because I knew that he would have wished it. 

He was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey on October 12, next to 
Robert Browning and in front of the Chaucer monument. The great 
crowd round the Abbey and the funeral service with its two anthems 
" Crossing the Bar " and " The Silent Voices," rising above the vast 
congregation, will be long remembered. Every day for weeks after 
multitudes thronged by the new-made grave m a never-ceasing proces- 
sion. The tributes of sympathy which we received from many countries 
and from all classes and creeds were not only remarkable for their 
universality, but for their depth of feeling. Against the pillar near his 
grave has been placed the fine bust of him by Woolner. 

His wife survived him four years, and is buried in the quiet church- 
yard at Freshwater. 

Dear, near and true, no truer Time himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore 
Dearer and nearer. 

TENNYSON. 



(The best-known portraits of my father are by Laurence, Watts, 
Herkomer, and Millais. The best photographs are a half-length by 
Mayall, a profile by Mrs. Cameron, and two three-quarters by Barraud 
done in his eightieth year.) 



TO THE QUEEN 



Revered^ beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old. 



Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long. 



Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener frotn the braivs 

Of him that titter' d nothing base ; 



And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day ! 
May children of our children say, 

* She wrought her people lasting good ^ 



And should your greatness, and the care ' Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 
That yokes with empire, yield you time God gave her peace ; her land reposed , 

To tnake demand of fnodern rhyme A thousand claims to i-everence closed 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 



Then — ivhile a sweeter music wakes. 
And thro' wild March the throstle calls. 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 



' And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 



' By shaping some august decree. 

Which kept her throne unshaken still. 
Broad-based upon her people's will. 
And compass' d by the inviolate sea.^ 



March 1851. 



JUVENILIA 



CLARIBEL 

A MELODY 

I 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall ; 
But the solemn oak-tree sighetli, 
Thick -leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



II 

At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone : 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth. 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 



NOTHING WILL DIE 

When will the stream be aweary of 
flowing 

Under my eye ? 
When will the wind be aweary of blowing 
Over the sky? 



When will the clouds be aweary of 

fleeting ? 
When will the heart be aweary of 
beating ? 

And nature die ? 
Never, oh ! never, nothing will die ; 
The stream flows. 
The wind blows, 
The cloud fleets, 
The heart beats, 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die ; 
All things will change 
Thro' eternity. 
'Tis the world's winter ; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago ; 
Earth is dry to the centre, 
But spring, a new comer, 
A spring rich and strange. 
Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round, 
Thro' and thro', 

Here and there, 

Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fill'd with life anew. 

The world was never made ; 

It will change, but it will not fade. 

So let the wind range ; 

For even and morn 

Ever will be 

Thro' eternity. 
Nothing was born ; 
Nothing will die ; 
All things will change. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE— LEONINE ELEGIACS 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its 
flowing 

Under my eye ; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds are 
blowing 

Over the sky. 
One after another the white clouds are 

fleeting ; 
Every heart this May morning in joyance 
is beating 

Full merrily ; 

Yet all things must die. 

The stream will cease to flow ; 

The wind will cease to blow ; 

The clouds will cease to fleet ; 

The heart will cease to beat ; 

For all things must die. 

All things must die. 

Spring will come never more. 

Oh ! vanity ! 
Death waits at the door. 
See ! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and the merrymaking. 
We are call'd — we must go. 
Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still ; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard. 
Nor the wind on the hill. 

Oh ! misery ! 
Hark ! death is calling 
While I speak to ye, 
The jaw is falling. 
The red cheek paling. 
The strong limbs failing ; 
Ice with the warm blood mixing ; 
The eyeballs fixing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell : 
Ye merry souls, farewell. 
The old earth 
Had a birth. 
As all men know. 
Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 
So let the warm winds range. 
And the blue wave beat the shore ; 



For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Thro' eternity. 
All things were born. 
Ye will come never more, 
For all things must die. 



LEONINE ELEGIACS 

Low-flowing breezes are roaming the 

broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming : 
Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only the 

far river shines. 
Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers 

of rose-blowing bushes, 
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble 

and fall. 
Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; the 

grasshopper carolleth clearly ; 
Deeply the wood-dove coos ; shrilly the 

owlet halloos ; 
Winds creep ; dews fall chilly : in her 

first sleep earth breathes stilly : 
Over the pools in the burn water-gnats 

murmur and mourn. 
Sadly the far kine loweth : the glimmer- 
ing water outfloweth : 
Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to 

the dark hyaline. 
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between 

the two peaks ; but the Naiad 
Throbbing in mild unrest holds him 

beneath in her breast. 
The ancient poetess singeth, that Hes- 
perus all things bringeth, 
Smoothing the wearied mind : bring me 

my love, Rosalind. 
Thou comest morning or even ; she 

cometh not morning or even. 
False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my 

sweet Rosalind ? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND 

God ! my God ! have mercy now. 

1 faint, I fall. Men say that Thou 



CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND 



Didst die for me, for such as vie. 

Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, 

And that my sin was as a thorn 

Among the thorns that girt Thy brow. 

Wounding Thy soul. — That even now. 

In this extremest misery 

Of ignorance, I should require 

A sign ! and if a bolt of fire 

Would rive the slumbrous summer noon 

While I do pray to Thee alone. 

Think my belief would stronger grow ! 

Is not my human pride brought low ? 

The boastings of my spirit still ? 

The joy I had in my freewill 

All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown ? 

And what is left to me, but Thou, 

And faith in Thee ? Men pass me by ; 

Christians with happy countenances — 

And children all seem full of Thee ! 

And women smile with saint-like glances 

Like Thine own mother's when she bow'd 

Above Thee, on that happy morn 

When angels spake to men aloud, 

And Thou and peace to earth were born. 

Goodwill to me as well as all — 

I one of them : my brothers they : 

Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 

And confidence, day after day ; 

And trust and hope till things should cease, 

And then one Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common faith ! 

To hold a common scorn of death ! 

And at a burial to hear 

The creaking cords which wound and eat 

Into my human heart, whene'er 

Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, 

With hopeful grief, were passing sweet ! 

Thrice happy state again to be 
The trustful infant on the knee ! 
Who lets his rosy fingers play 
About his mother's neck, and knows 
Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 
They comfort him by night and day ; 
They light his little life alway ; 
He hath no thought of coming woes ; 
He hath no care of life or death ; 
Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 
Because the Spirit of happiness 



And perfect rest so inward is ; 
And loveth so his innocent heart, 
Her temple and her place of birth. 
Where she would ever wish to dwell, 
Life of the fountain there, beneath 
Its salient springs, and far apart. 
Hating to wander out on earth, 
Or breathe into the hollow air. 
Whose chillness would make visible 
Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, 
Which mixing with the infant's blood, 
Fulfils him with beatitude. 
Oh ! sure it is a special care 
Of God, to fortify from doubt. 
To arm in proof, and guard about 
With triple-mailed trust, and clear 
Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 

As thine, my mother, when with brows 

Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld 

In thine, I listen'd to thy vows. 

For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — 

For me unworthy ! — and beheld 

Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew 

The beauty and repose of faith. 

And the clear spirit shining thro'. 

Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry 

From roots which strike so deep? why 

dare 
Paths in the desert ? Could not I 
Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt. 
To the earth — until the ice would melt 
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? 
What Devil had the heart to scathe 
Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush the 

dew 
From thine own lily, when thy grave 
Was deep, my mother, in the clay ? 
Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 
So little love for thee ? But why 
Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? WTiy 

pray 
To one who heeds not, who can save 
But will not? Great in faith, and strong 
Against the grief of circumstance 
Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if 
Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 
Thro' utter dark a fuU-sail'd skiff, 
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 



CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND 



Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 

Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 

At matins and at evensong, 

That thou, if thou wert yet alive, 

In deep and daily prayers would'st strive 

To reconcile me with thy God. 

Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 

At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — 

' Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, 

My Lord, if so it be Thy will.' 

Would'st tell me I must brook the rod 

And chastisement of human pride ; 

That pride, the sin of devils, stood 

Betwixt me and the light of God ! 

That hitherto I had defied 

And had rejected God — that grace 

Would drop from his o'er-brimming love, 

As manna on my wilderness, 

If I would pray — that God would move 

And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, 

Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 

Would issue tears of penitence 

Which would keep green hope's life. 

Alas! 
I think that pride hath now no place 
Nor sojourn in me. I am void. 
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 

Why not believe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath moor'd and rested ? Ask the sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope waves 
After a tempest, rib and fret 
The broad-imbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn ? 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 
And ripples of an inland mere ? 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his vexed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and paves 
The other ? I am too forlorn. 
Too shaken : my own weakness fools 
My judgment, and my spirit whirls. 
Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. 



'Yet,' said I, in my morn of youth. 
The unsunn'd freshness of my strength, 
Wlien I went forth in quest of truth, 
' It is man's privilege to doubt, 



If so be that from doubt at length, 
Truth may stand forth unmoved of change. 
An image with profulgent brows, 
And perfect limbs, as from the storm 
Of running fires and fluid range 
Of lawless airs, at last stood out 
This excellence and solid form 
Of constant beauty. For the Ox 
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 
The horned valleys all about. 
And hollows of the fringed hills 
In summer heats, with placid lows 
Unfearing, till his own blood flows 
About his hoof. And in the flocks 
The lamb rejoiceth in the year. 
And raceth freely with his fere. 
And answers to his mother's calls 
From the flower'd furrow. In a time, 
Of which he wots not, run short pains 
Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from 

whence 
He knows not, on his light there falls 
A shadow ; and his native slope, 
Where he was wont to leap and climb. 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall man live thus, in joy and hope 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 
Living, but that he shall live on ? 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that seem, 
And things that be, and analyse 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one, 
If one there be ? ' Ay me ! I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I Idol ? Let Thy dove 
Shadow me over, and my sins 
Be unremember'd, and Thy love 
Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

O weary life ! O weary death ! 
O spirit and heart made desolate ! 
O damned vacillating state ! 



THE KRAKEN— SONG— LILIAN— ISABEL 



THE KRAKEN 

Below the thunders of the upper deep ; 
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, 
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep 
The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights 

flee 
About his shadowy sides : above him swell 
Huge sponges of millennial growth and 

height ; 
And far away into the sickly light, 
From many a wondrous grot and secret 

cell 
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi 
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering 

green. 
There hath he lain for ages and will lie 
Battening upon huge seaworms in his 

sleep. 
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep ; 
Then once by man and angels to be seen, 
In roaring he shall rise and on the sur- 
face die. 



SONG 

The winds, as at their hour of birth, 
Leaning upon the ridged sea. 

Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes, 'We are free. 

The streams through many a lilied row 
Down -carolling to the crisped sea. 

Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
Atween the blossoms, ' We are free.' 



LILIAN 



Airy, fairy Lilian, 
Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me, 
Claps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me, 
Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs, 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple. 
From beneath her gathered wimple 
Glancing with black -beaded eyes. 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she flies. 



Pry thee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gaiety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson -threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 

Prythee weep. May Lilian. 



Praying all I can. 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL 



Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, 
but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 
Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- 
lucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dispread. 
Madonna-wise on either side her 

head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually did 
reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, < 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head. 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 
Of perfect wifehood and pure lowli- 
head. 



ISA BEL— MA K/ANA 



The intuitive decision of a briglit 

/ nd thorough -edged intellect to part 
Error from crime ; a prudence to 

withhold ; 
The laws of marriage character'd in 
gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-ixiced counsel in distress. 
Right Xo the heart and brain, tho' unde- 
scried. 
Winning its way with extreme gentle- 
ness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride ; 
A courage to endure and to ol>ey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isal)el, tliro' all her placid life, 
Tlie (jueen t)f m.irriagc, a most perfect 
wife. 



The mellow'tl reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing witii a nmddy (me, 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 
With swifter movement and in purer 
light 
The vexed eddies of its wayward 
brother : 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had 
fallen quite 
With cluster'd flower-bells and am- 
brosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each 

other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world hath 
not another 
(The' all her fairest forms are types of 

thee, 
And thou of G(xl in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA 

' Mariana in the moated grange.' 

Measure /or Meature,> 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the g;ible-wall. 
The broken sheds l(M)k'd sad and strange : 
Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only siiid, ' My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She Siiid, ' I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
Sjiu could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
.\fter the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the sk}-, 
She drew her casement-curtain b). 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, ' The night is dreary, 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She said, * I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 

Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change, 
In sleep she seeni'd to walk forlorn. 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed 
morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ' The day is dreary. 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 

Alxiut a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 

And o'er it many, round and small. 
The cluster'd niarish-mosses crept. 



8 



MARIANA— MADELINE 



Hard by a poplar shook alway, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, ' My life is drear>', 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 

And wild winds lx)und within their cell, 
. The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, ' The night is drear)-. 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She said, ' I am awearj', aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 



All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors ujx)n their hinges creak'd ; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot 
shriek'd, 
Or firom the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 

She only said, ' My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 



The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick -mot ed sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western Ixiwer. 

Then, said she, ' I am very dreary, 

He will not come,' she said ; 

She wept, ' I am aweary, awear}'. 

Oh God, that I were dead ! ' 



TO 



Clkar-HEAPED friend, whose joyful scorn. 

Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain 

The knots that tangle human creeds, 

The wounding cords that bind and strain 

The heart until it bleeds, 

Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



Low -cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 

Falsehood shall l)are her plaited brow : 

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 

Can do away that ancient lie ; 

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. 



Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch. 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, 
Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold. 

And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; 

Like that strange angel which of old, 
Until the breaking of the light. 

Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 

And heaven's mazed signs stood still 

In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE 



Thou art not stecp'd in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine. 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 

Delicious spites and darling angers. 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



song: the owl 



Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
rhou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
fvVhether smile or frown be sweeter. 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect -sweet along the brow 
pight -glooming over eyes divine. 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art p)erfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 



\. subtle, sudden flame, 

By veering passion fann'd, 

Alxjut thee breaks and dances : 

When I would kiss thy hand. 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
Vnd o'er black brows drops down 
V sudden -curved frown : 
^ut when I turn away, 
rhou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wrangles! ; 
But, looking fixedly tlie while. 

All my Ixjunding heart entanglest 
In a golden -netted <;milc ; 
Then in mitdncss and in bliss, 
f my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously, 
^gain thou blushest angerly ; 
Vnd o'er black brows drops down 
^ sudden -curved frown. 

SONG— THE OWL 



VnEN cats run home and light is come 
And dew is cold upon the ground. 



And the far-off stream is dumb, 
And the whirring sail goes round. 
And the whirring sail goes round ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



When merr>' milkmaids click the latch. 

And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the 
thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits. 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG 



TO THE SAME 



Thy tu whits are luU'd, I wot. 
Thy tuwho<is of yesternight. 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight ; 

That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



I would mock thy chaunt anew ; 

But I cannot mimick it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 

With a lengthcn'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 
ARABIAN NIGHTS 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew 

free 
In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow'd l>ack with me. 

The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer- morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was lx)rne, 



lO 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 



By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High- walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro* 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide. 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon -lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goc^dly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of go(Kl Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm. 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 
dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shako 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 



A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a lx;wery turn 
A walk with vary-coiour'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round alx)ut the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and liars, fed the time 
With odour in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung. 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight. 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden -bowers and grots 
Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged 
Alxjve, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendour from behind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold -green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark -blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid. 
Grew darker from that under- flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank. 

Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY 



Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A reahii of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks. 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Graven with emblems of the time. 
In honour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
I Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
j Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl. 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time. 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 



Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 

Engarlanded and diaper'd 

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 

With merriment of kingly pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime. 
The Good Haroun Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY 



ADDRESSED TO 



Thou who stealest fire. 
From the fountains of the past. 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste, 

, Visit my, low desire ! 
Sj:repgthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou earnest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soften'd 
light 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou camest with the morning 
mist, 
Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have 
kiss'd. 

When, she, as thou. 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 

Ill 

Whilome thou camest with the morning 
mist. 
And with the evening cloud. 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my 

open breast 
(Those peerless flowers which in the 
rudest wind 

Never grow sere, 



ODE TO MEMORY 



When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earhest of the year). 

Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 

Hope, 
The eddying of her garments caught from 

thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and the 

cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless, 
Was cloven with the million stars which 

tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth 

could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 

beautiful : 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth, I charge thee, arise, 

Thou of the many tongues, the myriad 

eyes ! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunting 
vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the gray 

hill-side, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn. 

In every elbow and turn, 

The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland, 

O ! hither lead thy feet ! 



Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick -fleeced sheep from wattled 

folds, 
Upon the ridged wolds, 
When the first matin-song hath waken'd 

loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung 

cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led. 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame-work of wrought 
gold; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first 

essay, _ _ . 

And foremost in thy various gallery 1 

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labour of thine early days : 
No matter what the sketch might be ; 
Whether the high field on the bushless 

Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 
Overblown with murmurs harsh, 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor- 
mous marsh. 
Where from the frequent bridge. 
Like emblems of infinity, 
The trenched waters run from sky to sky ; 
Or a garden bower'd close 



SONG— A CHARACTER — THE POET 



With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of crowned lilies, standing near 

Purple-spiked lavender : 

Whither in after life retired 

From brawling storms, 

From weary wind. 

With youthful fancy re-inspired, 

We may hold converse with all forms 
Of the many-sided mind, 
And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone, 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG 



A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob and 
sigh 
In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy 
stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick man's room when he taketh 

repose 
An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul 

grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting 

leaves, 



And the breath 

Of the fadingedges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

A CHARACTER 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, ' The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things. ' 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass. 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 

Then looking as 'twere in a glass. 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, 

And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm. 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries. 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. 
And other than his form of creed. 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 

THE POET 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn 
of scorn. 
The love of love. 



14 



THE POET'S MIND 



He saw thro' life and death, thro' good 
and ill, 
He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he 
threaded 
The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were 
headed 
And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
tongue. 
And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which 
bore 
Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
flower, 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth 
anew 
Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, 
grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the breath- 
ing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with 
beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the 
world 
Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 



And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow, 
Wlien rites and forms before his burning 
eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in 
flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran. 
And as the lightning to the thunder 
Wliich follows it, riving the spirit of man. 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. No 
sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his 
word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever. 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ; 
All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel 
cheer. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES— THE DESERTED HOUSE 



15 



In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry bird 

chants. 
It would fall to the ground if you came 
in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven 

above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and 

full, 
You never would hear it ; your ears are 

so dull ; 
So keep where you are : you are foul with 

sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came 
in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw. 
Betwixt the green brink and the running 

foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 

prest 
To little harps of gold ; and while they 

mused 
Whispering to each other half in fear. 
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle 



Whither away, whither away, whither 

away ? fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green field, 

and the happy blossoming shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain 

calls : 



Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill 

swells 
High over the full-toned sea : 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales, 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the 

land 
Over the islands free ; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of the 

sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising 

wave. 
And sweet is the colour of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
For merry brides are we : 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak 

sweet words : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden 

chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? 
Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, 

mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 



Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side. 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 



i6 



THE DYING SWAN— A DIRGE 



All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 

IV 

Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come away : for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with us ! 



THE DYING SWAN 



The plain was grassy, wild and bare. 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
Which had built up everywhere 

An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 

It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
And white against the cold-white sky. 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept. 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 



Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
And far thro' the marish green and 

still 
The tangled water-courses slept. 
Shot over with purple, and green, and 

yellow. 



The wild swan's death -hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky. 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 

stole 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 
But anon her awful jubilant voice. 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and 

harps of gold. 
And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar. 
To the shepherd who watcheth the even- 
ing star. 
And the creeping mosses and clambering 

weeds, 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank. 
And the wa\^ swell of the soughing 

reeds. 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing 

bank, 
And the silvery marish - flowers that 

throng 
The desolate creeks and pools among. 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE 



Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH— THE BALLAD OF ORLANA 



17 



II 


The balm-cricket carols clear 


Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 


In the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 


Nothing but the small cold worm 


Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 




Let them rave. 




Light and shadow ever wander 


LOVE AND DEATH 


O'er the green that folds thy grave. 




Let them rave. 


What time the mighty moon was gather- 




ing light 


Ill 


Love paced the thy my plots of Paradise, 


Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 


And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; 


Chaunteth not the brooding bee 


When, turning round a cassia, full in view, 


Sweeter tones than calumny ? 


Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 


Let them rave. 


And talking to himself, first met his 


Thou wilt never raise thine head 


sight : 


From the green that folds thy grave. 


'You must begone,' said Death, 'these 


Let them rave. 


walks are mine.' 




Love wept and spread his sheeny vans 


IV 


for flight ; 


Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 


Yet ere he parted said, 'This hour is 


The woodbine and eglatere 


thine : 


Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 


Thou art the shadow of life, and as the 


Let them rave. 


tree 


Rain makes music in the tree 


Stands in the sun and shadows all be- 


O'er the green that folds thy grave. 


neath. 


Let them rave. 


So in the light of great eternity 




Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 


V 


The shadow passeth when the tree shall 


Round thee blow, self- pleached deep, 


fall. 


Bramble roses, faint and pale, 


But I shall reign for ever over all.' 


And long purples of the dale. 




Let them rave. 




These in every shower creep 




Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 


THE BALLAD OF ORIANA 


Let them rave. 






My heart is wasted with my woe, 


VI 


Oriana. 


The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 


There is no rest for me below. 


The frail bluebell peereth over 


Oriana. 


Rare broidry of the purple clover. 


When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with 


Let them rave. 


snow. 


Kings have no such couch as thine, 


And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow. 


As the green that folds thy grave. 


Oriana, 


Let them rave. 


Alone I wander to and fro, 




Oriana. 


VII 




Wild words wander here and there : 


Ere the light on dark was growing, 


God's great gift of speech abused 


Oriana, 


Makes thy memory confused : 


At midnight the cock was crowing. 


But let them rave. 


Oriana : 



i8 



THE BALLAD OF ORLANA 



Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 



How could I look upon the day ? 

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 
Oriana ! 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak. 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, 

Oriana ? 

1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE 

Two children in two neighbour villages 
Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; 



THE MERMAN—THE MERMAID 



19 



Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 

Two lovers whispering by an orchard 
wall ; 

Two lives bound fast in one with golden 
ease ; 

Two graves grass-green beside a gray 
church -tower, 

Wash'd with still rains and daisy blos- 
somed ; 

Two children in one hamlet born and 
bred ; 

So runs the round of life from hour to 
hour. 



THE MERMAN 



Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone. 
Singing alone 
Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 
On a throne ? 



I would be a merman bold, 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of 

power ; 
But at night I would roam abroad and 

play 
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks. 
Dressing their hair with the white sea- 
flower ; 
And holding them back by their flowing 

locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and 
high. 
Chasing each other merrily. 

Ill 

There would be neither moon nor star ; 
But the wave would make music above 
us afar — 



light 



the 



magic 



Low thunder and 
night— 

Neither moon nor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 

All night, merrily, merrily ; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles 

and shells. 
Laughing and clapping their hands be- 
tween, 

All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID 



Who would be 
A mermaid fair. 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne ? 



I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the 

day; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my 

hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and 

say, 
' Who is it loves me ? who loves not me?' 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets 
would fall 

Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 



20 



ADELINE 



Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look 

in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love of 

me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 

Ill 

But at night I would wander away, away, 
I would fling on each side my low- 
flowing locks, 
And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the 

rocks ; 
We would run to and fro, and hide and 

seek. 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson 

shells. 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 
But if any came near I would call, and 

shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I would 

leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from 

the dells ; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who 

would list. 
Of the bold merry mermen under the 

sea ; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and 

flatter me. 
In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry me, 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 
In the branching jaspers under the sea ; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently. 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, 

and soft 



Would lean out from the hollow sphere 

of the sea. 
All looking down for the love of me. 



ADELINE 



Mystery of mysteries, 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 

Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair ; 

Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline. 

And a rose-bush leans upon, 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well. 

Looking at the set of day. 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wlierefore those faint smiles of thine, 

Spiritual Adeline ? 

Ill 

Wliat hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Wlio talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone. 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Iveep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woes 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
IIow the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 



MARGARET 



Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

Wlien thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn. 
Dripping with Sabsean spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing Light against thy face. 
While his locks a-drooping twined 

Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 

MARGARET 



O SWEET pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power. 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Wlio lent you, love, your mortal dower 
Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 
Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
From the westward- winding flood. 
From the evening-lighted wood. 

From all things .outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 



The very smile before you speak, 

That dimples your transparent cheek. 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
Like the tender amber round. 
Which the moon about her spreadeth. 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



You love, remaining peacefully. 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

I^aid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 

Ill 

What can it matter, Margaret, 

Wliat songs below the waning stars 
Tlie lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? 

Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 

The last wild thought of Chatelet, 

Just ere the falling axe did part 

The burningbrain from the true heart. 

Even in her sight he loved so well .? 

IV 

A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods. 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, 

And less aerially blue. 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty- woeful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 



22 



A'( ).V. / L IND—KL EANOKE 



Come down, oi>me down, and hoar mo 

spoak : 
Tic up the iin}j;lots on your ohook : 

The sun is just ahout ti> sot, 
The urohinj;' limos arc tall and shady. 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the loavy beech. 
Rise from tlio feast of sorrow, lady, 

Whore all day lon^ you sit between 
Joy and woo, antl whisper each. 
(.)r only look across the lawn. 

Look out Vk'Iow your bower-eaves. 
Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 
I'pon mo thio' the iasmino-leavos. 

ROSALIND 



My Rosivlind, n>y Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with brii;hl eyes, 

Whose free dolij.':ht, front any height of 

rapid tli>;ht. 
Stoops at all y;amo that wiiii; the skies. 
My Rosaliml, my Rosalind, 
My brij;ht-eyeil, wild-eyetl falcon, whither. 
Careless both of wind and weather, 
Whither tly ye, what ^ame spy ye, 
Uj) ox ilown the stroaminj; winil ? 



The i[uick Kiik's closest -caruU'd strains. 
The shadow rushing- up the sea. 
The lij^htning Hash atween the rains. 
The sunlight tlriving down the lea. 
The leaping stream, the very wind, 
That will not stay, upon his way, 
To stoi>p the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and l)old and free 
As you, my falcon Ri>salind. 
Vou care not for anv>ther's jwins, 
Because you are the smd of ji^y. 
Bright metal all without alloy. 
Life shoots anil glances thro' your vein? 
And flashes otV a thoussmd ways, 
Thro' li^)s and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright. 
Keen with triumph, watching still 
To pierce me thro' with pointed light : 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 



Like sunshine on a dancing rill. 
And yom- wv)nls are seeming-bitter, 
Sharp anil few, but seennng-bitter 
Vxowx excess of swift delight. 



(\>me lUnvn, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gnxy young hawk, my Rosalind : 
Too long yi>u keep the upjier skies ; 
Too long you roam and wheel at will ; 
Hut we must hood your random eyes. 
That care not whom they kill, 
.\nd your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is so sixirkling- fresh to view. 
Some red hoath-tlower in the dew, 
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
Fast, fast, my wild-e}ed Rosalind, 
And clip your wings, and make you love : 
When we have lured you froi\i above, 
And that delight of frolic flight, by day 

or night. 
From North to South, 
We'll bind you fast in silken cords, 
And kiss away the bitter words 
l''ri»m otV vour rosy mouth. 



ELEANORE 



TiiY dark eyes open'd not, 
Nov lirst reveal'd themselves to KngUsh 
air, 

l'"or there is nothing here, 
Which, front the outward to the inward 

brought. 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far otV fron\ human neighbourhood. 

Thou wort born, on a sununer morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar- wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With bree/es from our oaken glades. 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious 
land 
Of lavish lights, and floating shades : 
And tlattering thy childish thought 
The orient;U fairy brought. 
At the moment of ihv birth. 



ELEANORE 



23 



From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny 
shore. 
The choicest wealth (jf all the 
earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore. 
To deck thy cradle, Eleiinore. 



(Jr the yellow-handed l;ees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze. 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 
With whitest honey in fairy gar- 
dens cull'd — 
A gl<jri<;us child, dreaming alone, 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
With the hum of swarming Ijees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 



Who may minister to thc'c? 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape - thicken'd from the light, and 
blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like 
flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 

SleejK'th over all the heaven. 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore. 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleiinore ! 



How may fuU-sail'd verse express. 

How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleiinore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 
Eleanore, 



And the steady sunset glow. 
That stays ujjon thee ? For in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer in one shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle. 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody. 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleiinore ? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love -deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, sc; rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore. 
Gazing on thee for evermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 



vSometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling 

asleep, 
Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep 
In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 
I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 
But am as nothing in its light : 
As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 
Ev'n while we gaze on it. 
Should slowly round his orb, and slowly 

grow 
To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again. 

And draw itself to what it was 
before ; 

So full, so deep, so slow. 

Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleiinore. 



24 



KATE 



VII 

As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
Roof d the world with doubt and 
fear, 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation. 
Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 

Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move. 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee. 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses 

unconfined, 
While the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset and 
the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 

While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon. 
With dinning sound my ears are rife, 

My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my colour, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warm- 
est life. 



I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from 

thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 

KATE 

I KNOW her by her angry air. 
Her bright black eyes, her bright black 
hair. 

Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, 
As laughters of the woodpecker 

From the bosom of a hill. 

'Tis Kate — she sayeth what she will : 
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue. 

Clear as the twanging of a harp. 

Her heart is like a throbbing star. 
Kate hath a spirit ever strung 

Like a new bow, and bright and sharp 

As edges of the scymetar. 
Whence shall she take a fitting mate ? 

For Kate no common love will feel ; 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 

As pure and true as blades of steel. 

Kate saith ' the world is void of might.' 
Kate saith ' the men are gilded flies.' 
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows ; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight, 
Far-famed for well-won enterprise. 

And wearing on my swarthy brows 
The garland of new-wreathed emprise : 
For in a moment I would pierce 
The blackest files of clanging fight, 
And strongly strike to left and right, 
In dreaming of my lady's eyes. 

Oh ! Kate loves well the bold and 
fierce ; 
But none are bold enough for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 



My life is full of weary days, 

But good things have not kept aloof. 
Nor wander'd into other ways : 

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, 
Nor golden largess of thy praise. 



EARLY SONNETS 



25 



And now shake hands across Uie Ijrink 
C)f thai dec}) grave to wliich I go : 

Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 
So far — far down, hut I sliall know 
Thy voice, and answer from helow. 



When in the darkness over me 

The four-handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, 

Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery gray, 

And rugged barks begin to bud, 

And thro' damp holts new-flush'd with 

may, 
Ring sudden scritches of the jay. 

Then let wise Nature work her will. 
And on my clay her darnel grow ; 

Come only, when the days are still. 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow. 



EARLY SONNETS 



TO 

As when with downcast eyes we muse and 

brood. 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far back in some confused dream 
To states of mystical similitude ; 
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair. 
Ever the wonder waxeth more and more. 
So that we say, * All this hiath been before, 
All this hath been, I know not v/hen or 

where.' 
So, friend, when first I look'd upon your 

face. 
Our thought gave answer each to each, so 

true — 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
That tho' I knew not in what time or place, 
Methought that I had often met with you. 
And either lived in either's heart and 

speech. 



TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart Is with thee- thou 

wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church -harpies from the master's 

feast ; 
Our dusted velvets have much need of 

thee : 
Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, 
Distill'd from some worm - canker'd 

homily ; 
I>ut spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron -worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 
Ifalf God's good sabbath, while the worn- 
out clerk 
Brow-lxiaLs his desk below. Thou from 

a throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt slioot into tlie 

dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and 

mark. 



Mine be the strengtJi of spirit, full and 

free, 
Like some broad river rusliing down 

alone. 
With the selfsame impulse wherewith he 

was thrown 
From his loud fount upon the echoing 

lea:— 
Which with increasing might doth forward 

flee 
By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, 

and isle. 
And in the middle of the green salt sea 
Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. 
Mine be the power which ever to its sway 
Will win the wise at once, and by degrees 
May into uncongenial spirits flow ; 
Kv'n as the warm gulf-stream of Florida 
Floats far away into the Nortiiern seas 
The lavish growths of southern Mexico. 



EARLY SONNETS 



ALEXANDER 

Wakkiok of (uhI, whose strong right 

arm dekxstxl 
The throne of Persia, when her Siitrap 

bled 
At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled 
Beyond the jNIemmian naphtha- pits, dis- 
graced 
For ever — thee (thy pathway sand-erased) 
Gliding with et^ual crowns two serpents 

led 
Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed 
Ammonian Oasis in the waste. 
There in a silent shade of laurel brown 
Apart the Chamian Oracle divine 
Sheltered his unapproached mysteries : 
High things were sp<^iken there, unhanded 

down ; 
Only they s;iw thee from the secret shrine 
Returning with hot cheek and kindled 
eyes. 



BUONAPARTE 

He thought to quell the stubborn hearts 

of oak, 
Madman ! — to chain w ith chains, and bind 

with kinds 
That island queen who sways the floods 

and lands 
Fromind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, 
When from her wooden walls, — lit by 

sure hands, — 
With thunders, and with lightnings, and 

with smoke, — 
Peal after peal, the British k\ttle broke, 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when El- 
si nore 
Heard the war moan along the distant sea. 
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden 

fires 
Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more 
We taught him : late he learned humility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooPd 

with briers. 



POLAND 

llow long, O God, shall men be ridden 
down. 

And trampled under by the last and least 

Of men ? The heart of Poland hath not 
ceased 

To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth 
drown 

The fields, and out of every smouldering 
town 

Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- 
creased, 

Till that o'ergrown Barkirian in the East 

Transgress his ample bound to some new- 
crow n : — 

Cries to Thee, ' Lord, how long shall 
these things be ? 

I low long this icy-hearted Muscovite 

Oppress the region?' Us, O Tnst and 
Good, 

Forgive, who smiled when she was torn 
in three ; 

\Js., who stanil now, when we should aid 
the right — 

A matter to be wept w ith tears of bkxxl ! 



Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand. 
And singing airy trifles this or that. 
Light Hope at Beauty's ovll would perch 

and stand. 
And run thro' ever)' change of sharp and 

flat; 
And Fancy came and at her pillow Siit, 
When Sleep had kiund her in his rosy 

band. 
And chased away the still-recurring gnat. 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and 

less. 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders far. 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. 
That sets at twiliiiht in a land of reeds. 



EARLY SONNETS 



27 



Thk form, tlic form alone is ekxiuent ! 
A nobler yearning never broke her rest 
Tlian but to dance and sing, be gaily 

drest, 
And win all eyes with all accomplLsh- 

mcnt : 
Yet in the wl)irling dances as we went, 
My fancy made me for a moment blest 
To find my heart so near the beauteous 

breast 
That once had pr>wer to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears, 
The phantom of a wish that once could 

move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles re- 
store — 
Yux ah ! the slight cof^uette, she cannot 

love, 
And if you kiss'd lier feet a thousand 

years, 
She still would take the praise, and care 

no more. 

IX 

Wan SculjAor, weepest thou to take the 

cast 
fjf those dead lineaments that near thee 

lie? 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the 

past, 
In painting some dead friend from memory? 
Weep on : beyond liis object Love can 

last: 
His object lives : more cause to weep 

have I : 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, 
N<j tears of love, l;ut tears tliat Love can 

die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 
Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret deatli for ever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams with 

weary bones. 

X 

If I were loved, as I desire to be, 
What is there in the great sphere of the 
earth, 



And range of evil Ixrtween death and birth. 
That I should fear, — if I were loved by 

thee ? 
All the inner, all the outer world of pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if 

thou wert mine, 
iVs I have heard that, somewhere in the 

main. 
Fresh -water springs come up through 

bitter brine. 
'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand 

with thee. 
To wait for death — mute — careless of all 

ills, 
Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the 

gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. 



THE BRIDESMAID 

BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was 

tied. 
Thine eyes so wept that they could liardly 

see ; 
Thy sister smiled and said, * No tears for 

me ! 
A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride.' 
And then, the couple standing side by 

side. 
Love lighted down between them full of 

glee, 
And over his left .shoulder laugh'd at 

thee, 
' O happy bridesmaid, make a happy 

bride.' 
And all at once a pleasant truth I learn'd, 
For while the tender service made thee 

weep, 

1 loved thee for the tear thou couldst not 

hide. 
And prest thy hand, and knew the press 

return'd, 
And thought, ' My life is sick of single 

sleep : 
O happy bridesmaid, make a happy 

bride ! ' 



28 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

AND OTHER POEMS 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers. 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land. 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers ' 'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott.' 



There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay. 



She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be. 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls, • 
And there the surly village-churls. 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair 'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
' I am half sick of shadows,' said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III 

A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley- sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knigiil for ever knce''d 
To a lady in his sl:ieid, 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



29 



That sparkled on the yellow field, 
Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick -jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
*Tirra lirra,' by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
' The curse is come upon me,' cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



In the stormy east-wind straining. 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 
The broad stream in his banks complain- 
ing. 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 



Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 
The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. .^ 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide *' , 

The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony. 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by. 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in trie lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, ' She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace. 

The Lady of Shalott.' 



30 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right. 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But ' Ave Mary,' made she moan. 

And 'Ave Mary,' night and morn, 

And <Ah,' she sang, 'to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine. 
Her melancholy eyes divine. 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And 'Ave Mary,' was her moan, 

'Madonna, sad is night and morn,' 

And 'Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she cast, 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, ' Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load. ' 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

'Is this the form,' she made her 
moan, 
' That won his praises night and 
morn ? ' 
And 'Ah,' she said, 'but I wake 
alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.' 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat. 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 

And seem'd knee -deep in mountain 
grass, 

And heard her native breezes pass, 



And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan. 
And murmuring, as at night and 
morn. 
She thought, ' My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream ' 

Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 

She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
'Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn.' 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth. 
For 'Love,' they said, 'must needs be 
true, 
To what is loveliest upon earth.' 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say 
' But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone for evermore.' 

' O cruel heart,' she changed her tone, 
' And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 
To live forgotten, and die forlorn ?' 

But sometimes in the falHng day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

' But thou shalt be alone no more. ' 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

'The day to night,' she made her 
moan, 
* The day to night, the night to 
morn, 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 



THE TWO VOICES 



31 



Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 
And lean'd upon the balcony. 

There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 
And deepening thro' the silent spheres 

Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 
< The night comes on that knows not 
morn, 

When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

THE TWO VOICES 

A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
' Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? ' 

Then to the still small voice I said ; 
' Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made.' 

To which the voice did urge reply ; 

' To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

* An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

* He driedhis wings : like gauze they grew ; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew. ' 

I said, * When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

' She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest. 
Dominion in the head and breast.' 

Thereto the silent voice replied ; 

* Self-blinded are you by your pride : 
Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

' This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Ls boundless better, boundless worse. 

* Think you this mould of hopes and fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 

In yonder hundred million spheres ? ' 



It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

' Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind.' 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
' No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all.' 

To which he answer'd scoffingly ; 
' Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 
Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? 

' Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar diflerence 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? ' 

I would have said, ' Thou canst not know,' 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
' Thou art so steep'd in misery. 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

' Thine anguish will not let thee sleep. 

Nor any train of reason keep : 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.' 

I said, ' The years with change advance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

' Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
Ev'nyet.' But he: 'What drug can make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? ' 

I wept, ' Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

' And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought. 
Will learn new things when I am not.' 

' Yet,' said the secret voice, ' some time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

' Not less swift souls that yearn for light. 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 
Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 

' Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells.' 



32 



THE TWO VOICES 



I said that ' all the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

' Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ? ' 

'The highest-mounted mind,' he said, 
' Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

* Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main ? 

' Or make that morn, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and town ? 

' Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 

Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

' Thou hast not gain'd a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light. 
Because the scale is infinite. 

' 'Twere better not to breathe or speak. 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

* Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, 
A healthy frame, a quiet mind.' 

I said, ' When I am gone away, 

" He dared not tarry," men will say. 

Doing dishonour to my clay.' 

' This is more vile,' he made reply, 

* To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

' Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

' Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

' The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 



' Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just.' 

' Hard task, X.o pluck resolve,' I cried, 
' From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 

' Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 

' When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung. 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

' I sung the joyful Pcean clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

' Waiting to strive a happy strife. 
To war with falsehood to the knife. 
And not to lose the good of life — 

' Some hidden principle to move. 
To put together, part and prove. 
And mete the bounds of hate and love — 

' As far as might be, to carve out 
F'ree space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

' To search thro' all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
XwA reach the law within the law : 

' At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

' To pass, when Life her light withdraws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause. 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

' In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honour'd, known. 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

' Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

' Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke.' 



THE TWO VOICES 



33 



* Yea ! ' said the voice, ' thy dream was good , 
While thou abodest in the bud. 

It was the stirring of the blood. 

' If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 

* Then comes the check, the change, the 

fall, 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

* Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

' Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labour little-worth. 

* That men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 

Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

' Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

* For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

' Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

* Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope. 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope, 

' Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

* I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

* If straight thy track, or if oblique, 
Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost 

strike, 
Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

* And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

T 



' Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all.' 

' O dull, one-sided voice,' said I, 
' Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

' I know that age to age succeeds. 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

' I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

' Who, rowing hard against the stream. 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

' But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead. 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

' Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forebore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

' He heeded not reviling tones. 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised 
with stones : 

' But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face.' 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

' Not that the grounds of hope were 

fix'd. 
The elements were kindlier mix'd.' 

I said, ' I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

' And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

' Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : 

' For I go, weak from suffering here : 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear ? ' 



34 



THE TWO VOICES 



'Consider well,' the voice replied, 

' His face, that two hours since hath died ; 

Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

' Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

* His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

' His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the cheek. 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

' His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonour to her race — 

* His sons grow up that bear his name. 
Some grow to honour, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

* He will not hear the north-wind rave. 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

* High up the vapours fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgettelh him.' 

' If all be dark, vague voice,' I said, 

' These things are wrapt in doubt and 

dread, 
Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

' The sap dries up : the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? 

' I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

' From grave to grave the shadow crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

' The simple senses crown'd his head : 
'' Omega ! thou art Lord," they said, 
"We find no motion in the dead." 

' Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fixct, as taught by these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ? 



' Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence, 

liy which he doubts against the sense ? 

' He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise. 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

' Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

' That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

' He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labour working to an end. 

' The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex. 
With motions, checks, and counterchecks. 

' He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something 

good, 
He may not do the thing he would. 

' Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn. 

Vast images in glimmering dawn. 

Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

' Ah ! sure within him and without. 
Could his dark wisdom find it out. 
There must be answer to his doubt, 

* But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain. 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

' The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve.' 

As when a billow, blown against, 

Falls back, the voice with which I fenced 

A little ceased, but recommenced. 

' Where wert thou when thy father play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

' A merry boy they call'd him then, 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 



THE TWO VOICES 



35 



* Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 
Their course, till thou wert also man : 

' Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

' A life of nothings, nothing- worth. 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! ' 

' These words,' I said, ' are like the rest ; 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

* But if I grant, thou mightst defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

' Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold. 
That I first was in human mould ? 

' I cannot make this matter plain. 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

* It may be that no life is found. 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

' As old mythologies relate, 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The sHpping thro' from state to state. 

' As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then. 
Until they fall in trance again. 

* So might we, if our state were such 
As one before, remember much. 

For those two likes might meet and touch. 

* But, if I lapsed from nobler place. 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

' Some vague emotion of delight 
Alpine height, 



In gazing up an Alpine height, 
Some yearning toward the lamps 
night ; 



of 



' Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

' I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

' And men, whose reason long was blind. 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

' Much more, if first I floated free. 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

' For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

' Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

' Of something felt, like something here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare.' 

The still voice laugh'd. * I talk,' said he, 
' Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality.' 

'But thou,' said I, 'hast missed thy 

mark. 
Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark. 
By making all the horizon dark. 

' Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

' Whatever crazy sorrow saith. 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

' 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant. 
Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want.' 

I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
' Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' 



36 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 



And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal, 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest. 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child, 
With measured footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet. 
My frozen heart began to beat. 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

\ blest them, and they wander'd on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, ' Be of better cheer.' 

As from some blissful neighbourhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

' I see the end, and know the good.' 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

' I may not speak of what I know.' 

Like an ^olian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 
' What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? ' 

I cried. 
' A hidden hope,' the voice replied : 



So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went. 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wonder'd, while I paced along : 
The woods were fill'd so full with song, 
There seem'd no room for sense of wrong ; 

And all so variously wrought, 

I marvell'd how the mind was brought 

To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, ' Rejoice ! Rejoice ! ' 

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size. 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead drily curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without. 

And full of dealings with the world ? 

In yonder chair I see him sit. 

Three fingers round the old silver cup — 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 
My own sweet Alice, we must die. 

There's somewhat in this world amiss 
Shall be unriddled by and by. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 



37 



There's somewhat flows to us in life, 
But more is taken quite away. 

Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 
That we may die the self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of 
pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise. 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise. 
The tall flag- flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods 
('Tvvas April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 



A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes. 
The phantom of a silent song, 

That went and came a thousand times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set. 

That morning, on the casement-edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 

And you were leaning from the ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 

That these have never lost their light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess'd the atmosphere. 

And fill'd the breast with purer breath. 
My mother thought. What ails the boy ? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy. 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill. 
The sleepy pool above the dam. 

The pool beneath it never still. 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. 

The dark round of the dripping 
wheel. 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 
When April nights began to blow. 

And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 
I saw the village lights below ; 



38 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 



I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly- flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill ; 

And 'by that lamp,' I thought, 'she sits !' 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
* O that I were beside her now ! 

will she answer if I call ? 

would she give me vow for vow, 
Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? ' 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 
Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the 
blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light. 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night. 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak. 

The lanes, you know, were white with 

Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 
Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 

And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 

You would, and would not, little one ! 

Although I pleaded tenderly, 
And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

1 might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

' Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here,' she said : 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 
But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 

This dress and that by turns you tried, 
Too fearful that you should not please. 

1 loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, 
I kiss'd away before they fell. 



I watch'd the little flutterings. 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 
She spoke at large of many things. 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem. 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper by. 

It is the miller's daughter, 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles in her ear : 

For hid in ringlets day and night, 

I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

.nd I would be the girdle 
About her daintj' dainty waist, 
And her heart would beat against me, 

In sorrow and in rest : 
And I should know if it beat right, 
I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 

A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells. 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth. 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 
Like mine own life to me thou art. 

Where Past and Present, wound in one, 
Do make a garland for the heart : 



FA TIM A 



39 



So sing that other song I made, 
Half-anger'd with my happy lot, 

The day, when in the chestnut shade 
I found the blue Forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget ? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget : 

Ah, no ! no ! 

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
wife, 

Round my true heart thine arms entwine 
My other dearer life in life. 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes for ever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears, 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them 
well. 

Yet tears they shed : they had their part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type. 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss had brought us pain. 

That loss but made us love the more, 

With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss. 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought, 

With blessings which no words can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth, 
To yon old mill across the wolds ; 

For look, the sunset, south and north, 
Winds all the vale in rosy folds. 



And fires your narrow casement glass, 
Touching the sullen pool below : 

On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 
Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roU'd among the tender flowers : 

I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth ; 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, v/hen some one spoke his 

name. 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He Cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light. 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce 

delight. 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 
All naked in a sultry sky. 



40 



(ENONE 



Droops blinded with his shining eye : 

I will possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place, 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 

GENONE 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapour slopes athwart the 

glen. 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine 

to pine. 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 

hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway 

down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them 

roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n 

ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning: but in 

front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 

her neck 
Floated her hair or 'seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with 

vine. 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- 
shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the 

upper cliff. 

' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 
Rests like a shadow, and the winds are 

dead. 
The purple flower droops : the golden bee 



Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love. 

My heart is breaking, and my eyes are 

dim. 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O 

Caves 
That house the cold croM'n'd snake ! O 

mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River- God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy dark. 
And dewy dark aloft the mountain pine : 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 

white-hooved. 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. - 

' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down- 

dropt eyes 
I sat alone : white -breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard 

skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny 

hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's: 
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow 

brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all 

my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere 

he came. 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
white palm 



(ENONE 



41 



Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listen'd, the full -flowing river of 

speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

' " My own CEnone, 
Beautiful -brow'd CEnone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 

ingrav'n 
' For the most fair,' would seem to award 

it thine. 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married 

brows." 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
And added "This was cast upon the 

board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the 

Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 

'twere due : 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the 

cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 

Gods." 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery 

cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower 

they came. 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded 

bower. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like 

fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and 

vine, 



This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' 
and thro'. 

' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and 

lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to 

whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that 

grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' ' from 

many a vale 
And river - sunder'd champaign clothed 

with corn. 
Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. 
Honour," she said, "and homage, tax 

and toll, 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast - throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers." 

' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of 

power, 
' ' Which in all action is the end of all ; 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neigh- 
bour crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon 

from me. 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee 

king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, 

in power 
Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy." 



42 



CENONE 



' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought 

of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she 

stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen - headed 

spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest 

eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry 

cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made 

reply. 

' *' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self- 
control. 
These three alone lead life to sovereign 

power. 
Yet not for power (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for) but to live by 

law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence." 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said : "I woo thee not with 

gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbias'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to 

thee. 
So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown 

will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom." 



' Here she ceas'd, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, " O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! " but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian 

wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light 

foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, " 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, "I promise 

thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in 

Greece," 
She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight 

for fear : 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his 

arm. 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud. 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone. 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

' Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair? 
My love hath told me so a thousand 

times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful 

tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 

loving is she ? 



CENONE 



43 



Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my 

arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot Hps 

prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling 

dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest 

pines. 
My tall dark pines, that plumed the 

craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the 

dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while 

I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them over- 
laid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trem- 
bling stars. 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from the 

glens. 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with 

her 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
And bred this change ; that I might speak 

my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 

* O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand 

times, 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone ? 



Seal'd it with kisses ? water'd it with 

tears ? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my 

face? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my 

weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating 

cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and 

more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the in- 
most hills. 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

* O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to 

me 
Walking the cold and starless road of 

Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and 

go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come 

forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I 

know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and 

day, 
All earth and air seem only burning 

fire.' 



44 



THE SISTERS — THE PALACE OF ART 



THE SISTERS 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame : 
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and 

late. 
To win his love I lay in wait : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bad him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed. 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head. 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM 

I SEND you here a sort of allegory, 
(For you will understand it) of a soul, 



A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 
A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 
A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 
That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 
In all varieties of mould and mind) 
And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if 

Good, 
Good only for its beauty, seeing not 
That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are 

three sisters 
That doat upon each other, friends to 

man, 
Living together under the same roof. 
And never can be sunder'd without tears. 
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall 

be 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold 

lie 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
Was common clay ta'en from the common 

earth 
Moulded by God, and temper'd with the 

tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, ' O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well.' 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd 
brass 
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or 
shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And ' while the world runs round and 
round,' I said, 
' Reign thou apart, a quiet king. 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast 
shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring.' 



THE PALACE OF ART 



45 



To which my soul made answer readily : 

* Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me, 
So royal-rich and wide.' 



Four courts I made, East, West and 
South and North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the 
sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one 
swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, ' And who shall 
gaze upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes. 
While this great bow will waver in the sun. 
And that sweet incense rise ? ' 

For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd. 
And, while day sank or mounted higher. 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep -set windows, stain'd 
and traced, 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul 
did pass. 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace 
stood. 
All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green 
and blue. 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn. 
Where with pufif'd cheek the belted hunter 
blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of 
sand. 
And some one pacing there alone. 
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry 
waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock -thwarted under bellowing 
caves. 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding 
low. 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil. 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one a foreground black with stones 
and slags. 
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the 
scornful crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 



46 



THE PALACE OF ART 



And one, an English home — gray twi- 
hght pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order 
stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was 
there 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid -mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily ; 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply- wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian 
king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 

And many a tract of palm and rice. 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, 
From off her shoulder backward borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one 
hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 



Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down. 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells 
that swung. 
Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I 
hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and 
mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd 
his song. 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast. 
From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift. 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and 
stings ; 
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or 
bind 
All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man 
declined, 
And trusted any cure. 



THE PALACE OF ART 



47 



But over these she trod : and those great 
bells 
Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' coloured 
flame 
Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion 
were 
Full-welling fountain-heads of change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd 
fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, 
emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, 
drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone. 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd 
song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful 
mirth. 
Joying to feel herself alive. 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible 
earth. 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself : ' All these are 
mine. 
And let the world have peace or wars, 
'Tis one to me. ' She — when young night 
divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars. 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 

And pure quintessences of precious oils 

In hollow'd moons of gems, 



To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands 
and cried, 
' I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide. 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

' O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me well ! 

silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 

' O God -like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain. 
What time I watch the darkening droves 

of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

' In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin. 
They graze and wallow, breed and 
sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And drives them to the deep.' 

Then of the moral instinct w^ould she prate 

And of the rising from the dead, 
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

' I take possession of man's mind and deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 

1 sit as God holding no form of creed. 

But contemplating all.' 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone. 
Yet not the less held she her solemn 
mirth. 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd : so 

three years 

She prosper'd : on the fourtli she fell. 

Like Herod, when the shout was in his 

ears, 

Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 



48 



THE PALACE OF ART 



When she would think, where'er she 
turn'd her sight 
The airy hand confusion wrought, 
Wrote, ' Mene, mene,' and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 
Fell on her, from which mood was 
born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that 
mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

* What ! is not this my place of strength,' 
she said, 
' My spacious mansion built for me. 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones 
were laid 
Since my first memory ? ' 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears 
of blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of 

flame. 
And, with dim fretted foreheads all. 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she 

came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 
Or power of movement, seem'd my 
soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of 
sand. 
Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from 
the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 



Back on herself her serpent pride had 
curl'd. 
' No voice,' she shriek'd in that lone 
hall, 
' No voice breaks thro' the stillness of 
this world : 
One deep, deep silence all ! ' 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally. 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, 
And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking 
slow. 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 
cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, ' I 
have found 
A new land, but I die.' 

She howl'd aloud, ' I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin. 
And save me lest I die ? ' 

So when four years were wholly finished. 

She threw her royal robes away. 
* Make me a cottage in the vale,' she said, 
' Where I may mourn and pray. 



LAD V CLARA VERB DE VERE 



49 



' Yet pull not down my palace towers, 
that are 
So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt. ' 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats -of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
You held your course without remorse. 

To make him trust his modest worth. 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare. 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 

You pine among your halls and towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth. 

But sickening of a vague disease. 
You know so ill to deal with time. 

You needs must play such pranks as 
these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan -boy to read. 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
Pray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



50 THE MAY QUEEN 



THE MAY QUEEN 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday. 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 

And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



THE MAY QUEEN 51 



So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave. 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel -casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 



52 THE MAY QUEEN 



Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set 
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. 

Goodnight, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 
O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, 
P'or my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 



THE MAY QUEEN 53 



I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Efifie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, ' It's not for them : it's mine.' 
And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars. 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home— 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



54 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 

' Courage ! ' he said, and pointed toward 

the land, 
' This mounting wave will roll us shore- 
ward soon.' 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary 

dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 

moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender 

stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall 

did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a down- 
ward smoke. 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did 

go; 
And some thro' wavering lights and 

shadows broke. 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward 

flow 
From the inner land : far off, three 

mountain-tops. 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 
Stood sunset - flush'd : and, dew'd with 

showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 

woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
In the red West : thro' mountain clefts 

the dale 
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Border'd with palm, and many a winding 

vale 
And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 
A. land where all things always seem'd 

the same ! 
And round about the keel with faces 

pale. 
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 
The mild -eyed melancholy Lotos -eaters 



Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem. 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they 

gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. 
And music in his ears his beating heart 

did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow 

sand. 
Between the sun and moon upon the 

shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but ever- 
more 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the 

oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren 

foam. 
Then some one said, 'We will return no 

more ; ' 
And all at once they sang, ' Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer 

roam.' 

CHORIC SONG 



There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass. 
Or night -dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies. 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from 

the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long- leaved flowers 

weep. 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy 

hangs in sleep. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 



55 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from 

weariness ? 
All things have rest : why should we toil 

alone, 
We only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan, 
Still from one sorrow* to another thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings. 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 

balm ; 
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 
' There is no joy but calm ! ' 
Why should we only toil, the roof and 

crown of things ? 

Ill 

Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweeten'd with, the summer light,' 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow. 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days. 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no 

toil. 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

IV 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labour be ? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. "VNHiat pleasure can we 

have 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 



In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward 

the grave 
In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, 

or dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the down- 
ward stream, 

W^ith half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber 
light. 

Which will not leave the myrrh -bush on 
the height ; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 

Eating the Lotos day by day. 

To watch the crisping ripples on the 
beach. 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 

Tp lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melan- 
choly ; 

To muse and brood and live again in 
memory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an 
urn of brass ! 

VI 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath 

suffer'd change : 
For surely now our household hearths are 

cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are 

strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble 

joy- 

Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel 

sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half - forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 



56 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



The Gods are hard to reconcile : 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 
Long labour unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the 
pilot-stars. 

VII 
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, 

blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelid still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river drawing 

slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined 

vine — 
To watch the emerald - colour'd water 

falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus - wreath 

divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling 

brine. 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 

beneath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with 

mellower tone : 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the 

yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of 

motion we, 
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, 

when the surge was seething free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted 

his foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with 

an equal mind. 
In the hollow Lotos- land to live and lie 

reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless 

of mankind. 



For they lie beside their nectar, and the 

bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the 

clouds are lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with 

the gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking over 

wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, 

roaring deeps and fiery sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 

sinking ships, and praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred 

in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient 

tale of wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with 

enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and 

wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 

'tis whisper'd — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian 

valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the shore 
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind 

and wave and oar ; 
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will 

not wander more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
' The Legend of Good Women,'' long ago 

Sung by the morning star of song, who 
made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 

Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 

With sounds that echo still. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



57 



And, for a while, the knowledge of his 
art 
Held me above the subject, as strong 
gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' 
my heart. 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In 
every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. 

Those far -renowned brides of ancient 
song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning 
stars, 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and 
wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging 
hoofs ; 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanctu- 
aries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and on 
roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 
Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 

Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 
Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with 
heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues 
of fire ; 
Wliite surf wind-scatter'd over sails and 
masts, 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen 
plates. 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers 
woes, 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron 
grates. 
And hush'd seraglios. 



So shape chased shape as swift as, when 
to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self-same 
way, 
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level 
sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, 
Resolved on noble things, and strove 
to speak. 
As when a great thought strikes along 
the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow. 

That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 
And then, I know not how. 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and 
did creep 
Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, 
and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd far 
In an old wood : fresh- wash'd in coolest 
dew 

The maiden splendours of the morning star 
Shook in the stedfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and 
lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 
Their broad curved branches, fledged with 
clearest green, 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey 
done. 
And with dead lips smiled at the twi- 
light plain, 
Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun. 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 



58 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine 
turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to 
tree, 
And at the root thro' h;sh green grasses 
burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I 
knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul and 
frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under-tone 
Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unbliss- 
ful clime, 
' Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine 
own, 
Until the end of time.' 

At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing 
there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with sur- 
prise 
Froze my swift speech : she turning on 
my face 
The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

' I had great beauty : ask thou not my 
name : 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 
Many drew swords and died. Where'er 
I came 
I brought calamity,' 

' No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died,' 

I answer'd free ; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 



But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, 
To her full height her stately stature 
draws ; 
' My youth,' she said, ' was blasted with 
a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

' I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 
Which men call'd Aulis in those iron 
years : 

My father held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

' Still strove to speak : my voice was 
thick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with wolf- 
ish eyes. 
Waiting to see me die. 

' The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and 
the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's 
throat ; 
Touch'd ; and I knew no more.' 

Whereto the other with a downward brow : 
' I would the white cold heavy-plung- 
ing foam, 
Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep 
below. 
Then when I left my home.' 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence 
drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, ' Come 
here. 
That I may look on thee.' 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold 
black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth ahaughty smile, began : 
' I govern'd men by change, and so I 
sway'd 
All moods, 'Tis long since I have seen 
a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



59 



* The ever-shifting currents of the blood 

According to my humour ebb and flow. 
I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

* Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not 

bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with 
mine eye 
That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, 
friend, 
Where is Mark Antony? 

' The man, my lover, with whom I rode 
sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by 
God: 
The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

'We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, 
and lit 
Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus. O 
my life 
In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, 

' And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's 
alarms. 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms. 

Contented there to die ! 

' And there he died : and when I heard 
my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook 
my fear 
Of the other : with a worm I balk'd his 
fame. 
What else was left ? look here ! ' 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to 
sight 
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a 
laugh. 
Showing the aspick's bite.) 

* I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 

found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 



A name for ever ! — lying robed and 
crown'd, 
Worthy a Roman spouse.' 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for 
delight ; 
Because with sudden motion from the 
ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and fiU'd with 
Hght 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest 
darts ; 
As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' the 
lawn. 

And singing clearer than the crested bird 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

' The torrent brooks of hallow'd Lsrael 
From craggy hollows pouring, late and 
soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' the 
dell. 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

' The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine : 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine.' 

As one that museth where broad sunshine 
laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the 
door 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 



6o 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and 
tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, when 
that flow 
Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 
A maiden pure ; as when she went 
along 
From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome 
light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : ' Heaven heads 
the count of crimes 
With that wild oath.' She render'd 
answer high : 
' Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

' Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes be- 
neath. 
Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower 
to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

' My God, my land, my father — these did 
move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature 
gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of 
love 
Down to a silent grave. 

'And I went mourning, "No fair Hebrew 

boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 

among 
The Hebrew mothers " — emptied of all 

Leaving the dance and song, 

' Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 
Leaving the promise of my bridal 
bower. 
The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 
glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 



' The light white cloud swam over us. 
Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 
We saw the large white stars rise one by 
one. 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

' Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame. 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief 
became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

' When the next moon was roU'd into 
the sky. 
Strength came to me that equall'd my 
desire. 
How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

' It comforts me in this one thought to 
dwell, 

That I subdued me to my father's will ; 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 

Sweetens the spirit still. 

' Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where I 
stood : 
' Glory to God,' she sang, and past 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 

As one that from a casement leans his 
head. 
When midnight bells cease ringing sud- 
denly. 
And the old year is dead. 

' Alas ! alas ! ' a low voice, full of care, 
Murmur'd beside me : ' Turn and look 
on me : 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, 
If what I was I be. 



THE BLACKBIRD 



6i 



' Would I had been some maiden coarse 
and poor ! 

O me, that I should ever see the light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 

Do hunt me, day and night.' 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and 
trust : 
To whom the Eg)'ptian : ' O, you 
tamely died ! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, 
and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side.' 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
creeping beams, 
Stol'ntomybrain, dissolved the mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my 
dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the 
dark, 
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last 
trance 
Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of 
Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her who knew that Love can vanquish 
Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about 
her king. 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath. 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labours longer from the deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
hidden ore 
That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
sleep 
To gather* and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what 
dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to 
strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams 
again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 



As when a soul laments, which hath been 
blest. 
Desiring what is mingled with past 
years. 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest 
art. 

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, 
Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 

Faints, faded by its heat. 



THE BLACKBIRD 

O BLACKBIRD ! sing me something well : 
While all the neighbours shoot thee 

round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 

Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine ; the range of lawn and 

park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still. 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 
Cold February loved, is dry : 
Plenty corrupts the melody 

That made thee famous once, when 
young : 

And in the sultry garden -squares. 

Now thy flute -notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are 
new. 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



62 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR—TO J. S. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily sigh- 
ing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 
He will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
And the New-year will take 'em away. 
Old year, you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us, 
Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, 
And tho' his foes speak ill of him. 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I've half a mind to die with you, 

Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest. 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend. 

And the New-year blithe and bold, 
my friend. 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 



Shake hands, before you die. 
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : 
What is it we can do for you ? 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin ; 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, my 
friend. 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows 
More softly round the open wold, 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs are 
nursed. 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did 
pass ; 

One went, who never hath return'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 

Once more. Two years his chair is 
seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 



ON A MOURNER 



63 



Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honour and his living worth : 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew. 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

' Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain. ' 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say, * God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind ; ' 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun, 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her 
throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth. 
How should I soothe you anyway. 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 

Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 
That only silence suiteth best. 



Words weaker than your grief would 
make 
Grief more. 'Twere better I should 
cease 
Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in 
peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons increase, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



ON A MOURNER 



Nature, so far as in her lies. 
Imitates God, and turns her face 

To every land beneath the skies. 

Counts nothing that she meets with 

base, 
But lives and loves in every place ; 



Fills out the homely quickset-screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where humm'd the drop- 
ping snipe. 
With moss and braided marish-pipe ; 



And on thy heart a finger lays, 

Saying, ' Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime.' 



And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice. 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide Will that closes thine. 



64 



LOVE THOU THY LAND 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn, 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and 
bride, 
From out the borders of the morn, 
With that fair child betwixt them born. 



And when no mortal motion jars 

The blackness round the tombing sod, 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet have 

trod, 
And Virtue, like a household god 



Promising empire ; such as those 

Once heard at dead of night to greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease. 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
The land, where girt with friends or 
foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown. 
Where Freedom slowly broadens 
down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 

But by degrees to fullness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime. 

And individual freedom mute ; 



Tho' Power should make from land to 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should fill and choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth. 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 

The thunders breaking at her feet : 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind. 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race. 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fullness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 

Wlio, God -like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 
Make bright our days and light our 
dreams. 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by power of thought. 



LOVE THOU THY LAND 



65 



True love turn'd round .on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends. 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 

To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for 
day, 

Xho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald, Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the years : 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 

Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 



So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that which flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

W^herever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapour, hard to mark; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made. 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth. 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt. 

Would pace the troubled land, like 
Peace ; 



66 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN \^^2—THE GOOSE 



Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA 
IN 1782 

O THOU, that sendest out the man 

To rule by land and sea, 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 

Who wrench'd their rights from thee ! 

What wonder, if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 
Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught. 
And in thy spirit with thee fought — 
Who sprang from English blood ! 

But Thou rejoice with liberal joy, 

Lift up thy rocky face. 
And shatter, when the storms are black, 
In many a streaming torrent back. 

The seas that shock thy base ! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

The growing world assume. 
Thy work is thine — The single note 
From that deep chord which Hampden 
smote 

Will vibrate to the doom. 



THE GOOSE 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 



He held a goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd rhyme and reason, 

' Flere, take the goose, and keep yoi 
warm, 
It is a stormy season.' 

She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught th 
pelf. 

And ran to tell her neighbours ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 

And rested from her labours. 

And feeding high, and living soft. 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden dofPd, 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

' A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! ' 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

' Go, take the goose, and wring her throat 
I will not bear it longer.' 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat 
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 

The goose flew this way and flew that, 
And fill'd the house with clamour. 

As head and heels upon the floor 
They flounder'd all together. 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather : 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning ; 

' So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning.' 



THE EPIC 



67 



The wild wind rang from park and plain, 
And round the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danced again, 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 



Her cap blew off, her gown blew up. 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder : 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, ' The Devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger ! ' 



ENGLISH IDYLS 

AND OTHER POEMS 



THE EPIC 

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- 
eve, — 

The game of forfeits done — the girls all 
kiss'd 

Beneath the sacred bush and past away — 

The parson Holmes, the poet Everard 
Hall, 

The host, and I sat round the wassail- 
bowl, 

Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held 
a talk, 

How all the old honour had from Christ- 
mas gone. 

Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd 
games 

In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired 
out 

With cutting eights that day upon the 
pond. 

Where, three times slipping from the 
outer edge, 

I bump'd the ice into three several stars, 

Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 

The parson taking wide and wider 
sweeps. 

Now harping on the church - commis- 
sioners. 

Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 

Until I woke, and found him settled down 

Upon the general decay of faith 

Right thro' the world, 'at home was little 
left. 



And none abroad : there was no anchor, 

none, 
To hold by.' Francis, laughing, clapt 

his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with ' I hold by 

him.' 
' And I,' quoth Everard, 'by the wassail- 
bowl.' 
' Why yes,' I said, ' we knew your gift 

that way 
At college : but another which you had, 
I mean of verse (for so we held it then). 
What came of that ? ' ' You know,' said 

Frank, ' he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 

books ' — 
And then to me demanding why ? ' Oh, 

sir, 
He thought that nothing new was said, 

or else 
Something so said 'twas nothing — that a 

truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : 
God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. 
It pleased me well enough.' ' Nay, nay,' 

said Hall, 
'Why take the style of those heroic times? 
For nature brings not back the Mastodon, 
Nor we those times ; and why should any 

man 
Remodel models ? these twelve books of 

mine 
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- 
worth, 



68 



MORTE D' ARTHUR 



Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.' 

' But I,' 
Said Francis, ' pick'd the eleventh from 

this hearth 
And have it ; keep a thing, its use will 

come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.' 
He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a 

horse 
That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my 

ears ; 
For I remember'd Everard's college fame 
When we were Freshmen : then at my 

request 
He brought it ; and the poet little urged. 
But with some prelude of disparagement, 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and 

aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 

MORTE D'ARTHUR 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his wound 

was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
'The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodUest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 



Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, 

be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou remem- 

berest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an 

arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
j Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
Holding the sword— and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a 

king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring 

me word.' 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
' It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hcst will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee 

word.' 
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he 

stept 
And in the moon athvv^art the place of 

tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 

men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 

stepping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There drew he forth the brand 

Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 

moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran 

forth 



MORTE n ARTHUR 



^9 



And sparkled keen with frost against the 

hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 

stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift 

mind. 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
' Hast thou perform'd my mission which 

I gave ? 
Wliat is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 

heard ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 

' I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 

And the wild water lapping on the crag.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
' Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy 

name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me 

word.' 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud, 
' And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 



Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to dis- 
obey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a kingdemand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he 

does. 
WTiat record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumours of a doubt ? but were this 

kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying," King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honour and much fame 

were lost.' 
So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 
' What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 

heard ? ' 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
' I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds. ' 
To whom replied King Arthur, much 

in wrath : 
' Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art. 
For thou, the latest-lei"t of all my knights, 



70 



MORTE n ARTHUR 



In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious 

hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands. ' 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the 

sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The 

great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the 

moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd 

in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen whexe the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and bran- 

dish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
* Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen ? ' 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
' Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 

gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I Hung him, wheel- 
ing him ; 



But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and bran- 

dish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere.' 
And answer made King Arthur, breath- 
ing hard : 
' My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall 

die.' 
So saying, from the pavement he half 

rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words. 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted 

hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 

the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

' Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to 

ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as 

he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him, like 

a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 



MORTE D' ARTHUR 



71 



The bare black cliff clang'd round him, 

as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp - smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they were 

ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream 

— by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 
Then murmur'd Arthur, ' Place me in 

the barge,' 
And to the barge they came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, 

and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining 

loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face 

was white 
And colourless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the Hght and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd 

with dust ; 



Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in 

rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
' Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I 

go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the light 

that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the 

years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds.' 
And slowly answered Arthur from the 

barge : 
' The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new. 
And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within Himself make pure ! but 

thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep 01 

goats 



72 



THE GARDENER'S DA UGHTER 



That nourish a blind hfe within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of 

God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of AviHon ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- 
lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea, 
Wliere I will heal me of my grievous 
wound.' 
So said he, and the barge with oar and 
sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge 

of dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, 

that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, 

flared and fell : 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with 

sound. 
And waked with silence, grunted ' Good ! ' 

but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he 

read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and 

there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothing- 
ness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his 

work ; 



I know not : but we sitting, as I said. 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time 

of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man 

ill-used, 
' There now — that's nothing ! ' drew a 

little back. 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd 

log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores, 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, when 

dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. 
To me, methought, who waited with a 

crowd. 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, 

bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people 

cried, 
' Arthur is come again : he cannot die.' 
Then those that stood upon the hills ^ 

behind 
Repeated — ' Come again, and thrice as 

fair ; ' 
And, further inland, voices echo'd — 

' Come 
With all good things, and war shall be 

no more.' 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and heard 

indeed 
The clear church -bells ring in the 

Christmas-morn. 

THE GAKDENER'S 
DAUGHTER; 

OR, THE PICTURES 

This morning is the morning of the day. 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter ; I and he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we 

grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 



OR, THE PICTURES 



73 



My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and 

draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ; — ^Juliet, 

she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless 

moons. 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her. 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
' When will yoii paint like this ? ' and I 

replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in 

jest,) 
' 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, 

unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, made 

those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of 

March.' 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, ' Go and see 
The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after 

that, 
You scarce can fail to match his master- 
piece.' 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you 

hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock ; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad 

stream, 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 



The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd 

kine. 
And all about the large lime feathers low. 
The lime a summer home of murmurous 

wings. 
In that still place she, hoarded in herself, 
Grew, seldom seen ; not less among us 

lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not 

heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter ? Where 

was he. 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in grief. 
That, having seen, forgot ? The common 

mouth. 
So gross to express delight, in praise of 

her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images. 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart. 
And told me I should love. A crowd of 

hopes. 
That sought to sow themselves like 

winged seeds. 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of 

balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought. 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the 

dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark 

East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 
And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery 

squares. 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large 

cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of heaven 

was pure 



74 



THE GARDENER'S DA UGHTER ; 



Up to the Sun, and May from verge to 

verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. 

And now, 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all 

its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life 

of these, ) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to 

graze, 
And, where the hedge -row cuts the 

pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, 
And lowing to his fellows. From the 

woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes 

for joy, 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left 

and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said 

to me, 
' Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think 

you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 
Or have they any sense of why they sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens for 

what they have ? ' 
And I made answer, ' Were there nothing 

else 
For which to praise the heavens but only 

love, 
That only love were cause enough for 

praise.' 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read 

my thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had 

pass'd. 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the 

North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted 

us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; 



This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, 

blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the 

midst 
A cedar spread his dark -green layers of 

shade. 
The garden - glasses glanced, and mo- 
mently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. 
'Eustace,' I said, 'this wonder keeps 

the house.' 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, ' Look ! look !' Before he ceased 

I turn'd. 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 
For up the porch there grew an Eastern 

rose, 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale 

had caught. 
And blown across the walk. One arm 

aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the 

shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood, 
A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the 

flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went waver- 
ing down, 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have 

danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mix'd with shadows of the common 

ground ! 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and 

sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her 

lips. 
And on the bounteous wave of such a 

breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half 

shade. 
She stood, a sight to make an old man 

young. 



OR, THE PICTURES 



75 



So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, 

a Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance 

turn'd 
Into the world without ; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent. 
This murmur broke the stillness of that 

air 
Which brooded round about her : 

'Ah, one rose. 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers 

cull'd. 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on 

lips 
Less exquisite than thine.' 

She look'd : but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-pos- 

sess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and 

that, 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused. 
And dropt the branch she held, and turn- 
ing, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her 

lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer 

came, 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it. 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like. 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day. 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white 

star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the 

dusk. 
So home we went, and all the livelong 

way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
' Now,' said he, ' will you climb the top 

of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet ? you, not you, — the Master, 

Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all.' 

So home I went, but could not sleep 

for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom. 



Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise of 

life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a 

voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and 

such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the 

dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchman 

peal 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy 

hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, 
Distilling odours on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir 

to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward 

squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she 

dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me ; sometimes a 

Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk. 
To grace my city rooms ; or fruits and 

cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more and 

more 
A word could bring the colour to my 

cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy 

dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with 

each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year. 
One after one, thro' that still garden 

pass'd ; 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 

I into 1 

shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with some 

new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by 

day. 
Like one that never can be wholly known, 



76 



THE GARDENER'S DA UGHTER 



Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought 

an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep ' I 

will,' 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to 

hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds : but I 

rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark 

eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing 

there. 
There sat we down upon a garden 

mound, 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third. 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers. 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from 

them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time 

we play'd, 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed 

about 
The subject most at heart, more near and 

near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling 

round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
Then, in that time and place, I spoke 

to her. 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; 
And in that time and place she answer'd 

me, 
And in the compass of three little words, 
More musical than ever came in one, 
The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering, ' I am 

thine.' 
Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to 

say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes, 
By its own energy fulfiU'd itself. 
Merged in completion? Would you learn 

at full 



How passion rose thro' circumstantial 
grades 

Beyond all grades develop'd ? and indeed 

I had not staid so long to tell you all. 

But while I mused came Memory with 
sad eyes, 

Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 

And while I mused. Love with knit brows 
went by, 

And with a flying finger swept my lips. 

And spake, ' Be wise : not easily forgiven 

Are those, who setting wide the doors that 
bar 

The secret bridal chambers of the heart. 

Let in the day.' Here, then, my words 
have end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare- 
wells — 

Of that which came between, more sweet 
than each. 

In whispers, like the whispers of the 
leaves 

That tremble round a nightingale — in 
sighs 

Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter- 
ance. 

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I 
not tell 

Of difference, reconcilement, pledges 
given. 

And vows, where there was never need 
of vows, 

And kisses, where the heart on one wild 
leap 

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 

The heavens between their fairy fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting 
stars ; 

Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit. 

Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores. 

And in the hollows ; or as once we met 

Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering 
rain 

Night slid down one long stream of sigh- 
ing wind, 

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 
But this whole hour your eyes have 
been intent 



DORA 



77 



On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it 

holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise 

thy soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : 

the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine 

age. 

DORA 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son. 
And she his niece. He often look'd at 

them. 
And often thought, ' I'll make them man 

and wife.' 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
And yearn'd toward William ; but the 

youth, because 
He had been always with her in the house. 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, 

' My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and 

he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your 

wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night 

and day. 
For many years.' But William answer'd 

short ; 
* I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora. ' Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, 

and said : 



' You will not, boy ! you dare to answer 

thus? 
But in my time a father's word was law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 

it; 
Consider, William : take a month to 

think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall 

pack, 
And never more darken my doors again. ' 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his 

lips. 
And broke away. The more he look'd 

at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were 

harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then 

before 
The month was out he left his father's 

house, 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and 

wed 
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, 

Allan call'd 
His niece and said : ' My girl, I love you 

well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my 

son. 
Or change a word with her he calls his 

wife. 
My home is none of yours. My will is 

law.' 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
' It cannot be : my uncle's mind will 

change ! ' 
And days went on, and there was born 

a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on 

him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's 

gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd hira 

not. 
But Dora stored what little she could 

save, 



78 



DORA 



And sent it them by stealth, nor did they 

know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and 

thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 

said : 
' I have obey'd my uncle until now. 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's 

gone. 
And for your sake, the woman that he 

chose. 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these 

five years 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy. 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart 

is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 

gone.' 
And Dora took the child, and went 

her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies 

grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his 

men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to 

him. 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers 

reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose 

and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the 

mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 



you 



And came and said : ' Wliere were 

yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you doing 

here?' 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, ' This is William's 

child ! ' 
' And did I not,' said Allan, ' did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? ' Dora said again : 
' Do with me as you will, but take the 

child. 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 

gone ! ' 
And Allan said, ' I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you 

dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take the 

boy; 
But go you hence, and never see me more.' 
So saying, he took the boy that cried 

aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of 

flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands. 
And the boy's cry came to her from the 

field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd 

down her head. 
Remembering the day when first she came. 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers 

reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and 

stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in 

praise 
To God, that help'dher in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, ' My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more.' 
Then answer'd Mary, ' This shall never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on 

thyself: 



AUDLEY COURT 



79 



And, now I think, he shall not have the 

boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to 

slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring him 

home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back : 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house. 
And work for William's child, until he 

grows 
Of age to help us.' 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the 

farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, 

and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's 

knees. 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. 
And clapt him on the hands and on the 

cheeks, 
Like one that loved him : and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that 

hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the 

fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy 

beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 
' O Father ! — if you let me call you 

so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I 

come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you 

well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at 

peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 

said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he 

said 
That he was wrong to cross his father 
thus; 



"God bless him!" he said, "and may 
he never know 

The troubles I have gone thro' ! " Then 
he turn'd 

His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for 
you 

Will make him hard, and he will learn 
to slight 

His father's memory ; and take Dora 
back. 

And let all this be as it was before.' 
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 

By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 

And all at once the old man burst in 
sobs : — 
' I have been to blame — to blame. I 
have kill'd my son. 

I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my 
dear son. 

May God forgive me ! — I have been to 
blame. 

Kiss me, my children.' 

Then they clung about 

The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many 
times. 

And all the man was broken with re- 
morse ; 

And all his love came back a hundred- 
fold ; 

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er Wil- 
liam's child 

Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 

Within one house together ; and as years 

Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 

But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



AUDLEY COURT 

* The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and 

not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Audley Court.' 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow 

quay. 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 
To Francis just alighted from the boat, 



8o 



AUDLEY COURT 



And breathing of the sea. ' With all my 

heart,' 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' 

the swarm, 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 
We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we 

reach' d 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' 

all 
The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores. 
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's 

lodge, 
With all its casements bedded, and its 

walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 
There, on a slope of orchard, Francis 

laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and 

hound. 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of 

home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, 
Wliere quail and pigeon, lark and leveret 

lay, 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats. 
Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and 

eat 
And talk'd old matters over ; who was 

dead. 
Who married, who was like to be, and 

how 
The races went, and who would rent the 

hall: 
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce 

it was 
This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd 

the farm. 
The four-field system, and the price of 

grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we 

split, 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laugh'd aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin 

hung 



To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and 

sang— i 

* Oh ! who would fight and march and 

countermarch, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 
And shovell'd up into some bloody trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live my 

life. 
' Oh ! who would cast and balance at 

a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd 

stool. 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. 
' Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved 

my name 

Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 

I might as well have traced it in the sands ; 

The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. 

' Oh ! who would love ? I woo'd a 

woman once. 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind, 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a 

thorn 
Turns from the sea ; but let me live my 

life.' 
He sang his song, and I replied with 

mine : 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir 

Robert's pride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — 

and this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 
' Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream 

of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is 

mine. 
' Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou. 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 
' Sleep, breathing health and peace 

upon her breast : 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against 

her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 
' I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 



8i 



Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of 
me.' 
So sang we each to either, Francis 
Hale, 
The farmer's son, who lived across the 

bay. 
My friend ; and I, that having where- 
withal, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and everywhere. 
Did what I would ; but ere the night we 

rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, 

that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming 

quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us : lower 

down 
The bay was oily calm ; the harbour- 
buoy, 
Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm, 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 

John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh 
the meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago. 
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. 
Is yon plantation where this byway joins 
The turnpike ? 

Ja??ies. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by ? 

James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 

John. What is it now ? 

James. A quarter to. 

John. Whose house is that I see ? 

No, not the County Member's with the 

vane : 
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and 

half 
A score of gables. 

James. That ? Sir Edward Head's : 
But he's abroad : the place is to be sold. 

John. Oh, his. He was not broken. 



James. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid 

his face 
From all men, and commercing with 

himself. 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for 

change. 
John. And whither ? 
James. Nay, who knows? he's here 

and there. 
But let him go ; his devil goes with him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 
John. What's that ? 
James. You saw the man — on Mon- 
day, was it ? — 
There by the humpback'd willow ; half 

stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a 

bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker tickling 

trout — 
Caught in Jlag)-ante — what's the Latin 

word ? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say. 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that 

shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at 

doors. 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant 

stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and 

chairs. 
And all his household stuff ; and with his 

boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails 

him, 'What! 
You're flitting ! ' ' Yes, we're flitting,' 

says the ghost 
(For they had pack'd the thing among 

the beds,) 
' Oh well,' says he, 'you flitting with us 

too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again.' 
John. He left his wife behind ; for so 

I heard. 



82 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 



James. He left her, yes. I met my 

lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 
John. Oh yet but I remember, ten 

years back — 
'Tis now at least ten years — and then she 

was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it 

flowers. 
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and 

they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and 

dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame 

and pride. 
New things and old, himself and her, she 

sour'd 
To what she is : a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds like, 

they say : 
Kind nature is the best : those manners 

next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 
John. But I had heard it was this bill 

that past. 
And fear of change at home, that drove 

him hence. 
James. That was the last drop in the 

cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen 

him wince 
As from a venomous thing : he thought 

himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his 

nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, 

you know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 



Of those that want, and those that have : 

and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age 

to age 
With much the same result. Now I 

myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 
I was at school — a college in the South : 
There lived a flayflint near : we stole his 

fruit, 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law 

for tis ; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. 

She, 
With meditative grunts of much content. 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and 

mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college 

tower 
From her warm bed, and up the cork- 
screw stair 
With hand and rope we haled the groan- 
ing sow, 
And on the leads we kept her till she 

pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother 

sow. 
And but for daily loss of one she loved 
As one by one we took them — but for 

this — 
As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy : but what lot is 

pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swirte. 
And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 
John. They found you out ? 
James. Not they. 

John. Well — after all — ■ 

What know we of the secret of a man ? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, 

who are sound. 
That we should mimic this raw fool the 

world. 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks 

or whites. 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than will. 



EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE 



83 



But put your best foot forward, or I 

fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here it 

comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three pyebalds and a 

roan. 

EDWIN MORRIS; 

OR, THE LAKE 

O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a 

year. 
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing : curves of mountain, 

bridge. 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a 

rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold. 
New-comers from the Mersey, million- 
aires. 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimnied 

bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward 

Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss and 

fern, 
Who forged a thousand theories of the 

rocks, 
Wlio taught me how to skate, to row, to 

swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for he 

seem'd 
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early life. 
And his first passion ; and he answer'd 
me ; 



And well his words became him : was he 

not 
A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he 

spoke. 

' My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love 

for her. 
My love for Nature and my love for her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew. 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun. 
And some full music seem'd to move and 

change 
With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilight and the day between ; 
For daily hope fulfiU'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it 

sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to 

breathe.' 

Or this or something like to this he 

spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward 

Bull, 
' I take it, God made the woman for 

the man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal 

ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and in- 
deed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid 

stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world.' 

' Parson,' said I, ' you pitch the pipe 
too low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce have other music : yet say on. 



84 



EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE 



What should one give to Hght on such a 


It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 


dream ? ' 


Or something of a wayward modern mind 


I ask'd him half-sardonically. 


Dissecting passion. Time will set me 


' Give ? 


right.' 


Give all thou art,' he answered, and a 




light 


So spoke I knowing not the things 


Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; 


that were. 


' I would have hid her needle in my 


Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 


heart, 


Bull: 


To save her little finger from a scratch 


*God made the woman for the use of 


No deeper than the skin : my ears could 


man, 


hear 


And for the good and increase of the 


Her lightest breath ; her least remark 


world.' 


was worth 


And I and Edwin laughed ; and now we 


The experience of the wise. I went and 


paused 


came ; 


About the windings of the marge to hear 


Her voice fled always thro' the summer 


The soft wind blowing over meadowy 


land ; 


holms 


I spoke her name alone. Thrice -happy 


And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left 


days ! 


The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 


The flower of each, those moments when 


By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 


we met. 


Delighted with the freshness and the 


The crown of all, we met to part no 


sound. 


more. 


But, when the bracken rusted on their 


Were not his words delicious, I a beast 


crags, 


To take them as I did? but something 


My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by 


jarr'd ; 


him 


Whether he spoke too largely ; that there 


That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 


seem'd 


The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 


A touch of something flxlse, some self- 


'Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no 


conceit. 


more : 


Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, 


She sent a note, the seal an Elle voiis suit^ 


He scarcely hit my humour, and I said : 


The close, ' Your Letty, only yours ; ' and 

this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist 


' Friend Edwin, do not think yourself 


alone 


of morn 


Of all men happy. Shall not Love to 


Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 


me, 


My craft aground, and heard with beat- 


As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 


ing heart 


Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and 


The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving 


left? 


keel; 


But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein : 


And out I stept, and up I crept : she 


I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as 


moved, 


much within ; 


Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering 


Have, or should have, but for a thought 


flowers : 


or two, 


Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; 


That like a purple beech among the greens 


and she, 


Looks out of place : 'tis from no want in 


She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore 


her : 


foith, I breathed 



S T. SIME ON S TYLITES 



85 



In some new planet : a silent cousin stole 
Upon us and departed : ' Leave,' she 

cried, 
* O leave me ! ' ' Never, dearest, never : 

here 
I brave the worst : ' and while we stood 

like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they 

came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. ' What, 

with him ! 
Go ' (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus) ; 

' him ! ' 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the 

burthen — ' Him ! ' 
Again with hands of wild rejection ' Go ! — 
Girl, get you in ! ' She went — and in one 

month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds. 
To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery 

smile 
And educated whisker. But for me, 
They set an ancient creditor to work : 
It seems I broke a close with force and 

arms : 
There came a mystic token from the king 
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 
I read, and fled by night, and flying 

turn'd : 
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below : 
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the 

storm ; 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to 

hear. 

Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long 

ago 
I have pardon'd little Letty ; not indeed, 
It may be, for her own dear sake but this, 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; 
For in the dust and drouth of London life 
She moves among my visions of the lake, 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, 

or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the summer 

crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind. 
From scalp to sole one slough and crust 

of sin, 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce 

meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and 

sob, 
Battering the gates of heaven with storms 

of prayer. 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. 
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty 

God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten 

years. 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes 

and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and 

sleet, and snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy 

rest. 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and 

the palm. 
O take the meaning, Lord : I do not 

breathe, 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were 

still 
Lessburthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear. 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, 

that crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the 

first, 
For I was strong and hale of body then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt 

away. 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my 

beard 



86 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES 



Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with 

sound 
Of pious hymns and psahiis, and some- 
times saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws 

nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind, 
And scarce can recognise the fields I 

know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the 

dew ; 
Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary 

head. 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the 

stone. 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 
Who may be saved ? who is it may be 

saved ? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? 
Show me the man hath sufifer'd more 

than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified, 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of 

death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heedfuUy I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O my God. 
For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore : but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there. 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from the 

well. 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul. 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More 

than this 



I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. 
Three winters, that my soul might 

grow to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain 

side. 
My right leg chain' d into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, 

and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and 

sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating 

not, 
Except the spare chance -gift of those 

that came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live : 
And they say then that I work'd miracles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst man- 
kind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, 

O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin. 
Then, that I might be more alone 

with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of 

twelve ; 
And twice three years I crouch'd on one 

that rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew 
Twice ten long weary weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits firom the soil, 
I think that I have borne as much as 

this— 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time. 
If I may measure time by yon slow light. 
And this high dial, which my sorrow 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
' Fall down, O Simeon : thou hast suffer'd 

long 
For ages and for ages ! ' then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro'. 
Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall. 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are 

choked. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES 



87 



But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all 

the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on 

earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- 
some food. 
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts 

have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the 

light. 
Bow down one thousand and two hundred 

times, 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 

saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am 

wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with crack- 
ling frost. 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my 

back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the 

cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I 

die : 
O mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 
O Lord, thou knowest what a man I 

am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin : 
'Tis their own doing ; this is none of 

mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for 

this, 
That here come those that worship me ? 

Ha ! ha ! 
They think that I am somewhat. What 

am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and 

flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness 

here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and 

more 
Than many just and holy men, whose 

names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 



Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this ? 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some miracles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; but 

what of that ? 
It may be, no one, even among the saints, 
May match his pains with mine ; but 

what of that ? 
Yet do not rise ; for you may look on me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to 

God. 
Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd? 
I think you know I have some power 

with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak 

his wish. 
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes 

forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, 

hark ! they shout 
'St. Simeon Stylites.' Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? 
This is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, 

' Behold a saint ! ' 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere 

death 
Spreads more and more and more, that 

God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful 

record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine 

bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours 

become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here pro- 
claim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 



THE TALKING OAK 



Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals 

I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my 

sleeve, 
Abaddon and Asniodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross ; they 

swarm'd again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd 

my chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I 

saw 
Their faces grow between me and my 

book ; 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish 

whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way 

was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and 

with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may 

be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with 

slow steps. 
With slow, faint steps, and much exceed- 
ing pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, 

that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the 

praise : 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought 

fit, 
Among the powers and princes of this 

world. 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not 

say 
But that a time may come — yea, even 

now. 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the thresh- 
old stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without re- 
proach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your land. 
And you may carve a shrine about my 

dust. 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my 

bones, 



When I am gather'd to the glorious 

saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of shrewd- 
est pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike 

change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the 

end ! 
Surely the end ! "V^^iat's here ? a shape, 

a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown? Come, blessed 

brother, come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited 

long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it 

now? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I 

clutch it. Christ ! 
'Tis gone : 'tis here again ; the crown ! 

the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and 

frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : 

I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet 

for Heaven. 
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of 

God, 
Among you there, and let hi;ii presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft. 
And climbing up into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy light. 



THE TALKING OAK 

Once more the gate behind me falls ; 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 



THE TALKING OAK 



89 



Beyond the lodge the city lies, 

Beneath its drift of smoke ; 
And ah ! with what delighted eyes 

I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 

And told him of my choice, 
Until he plagiarised a heart. 

And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven 
None else could understand ; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
'Twere well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern. 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name. 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

* O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year 
Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

* Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 

And, issuing shorn and sleek, 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 



' Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number' d bead, and shrift, 

Bluff Plarry broke into the spence 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

' And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces, that would thrive 

When his man -minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

' And all that from the town would stroll, 
Till that wild wind made work 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork : 

' The slight she-slips of loyal blood. 

And others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays : 

' And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 

Or w^hile the patch was worn ; 

' And, leg and arm with love-knots gay. 
About me leap'd and laugh'd 

The modish Cupid of the day. 
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

' I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick. 

Is three times worth them all ; 

' For those and theirs, by Nature's law. 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

' From when she gamboll'd on the greens 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

' I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 



90 



THE TALKING OAK 



' Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So light upon the grass : 

* For as to fairies, that will flit 

To make the greensward fresh, 
I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh.' 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name. 
That oft hast heard my vows. 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

' O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town ; 
Iler father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

' And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxslip is. 

So seems she to the boy. 

' An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the low-wheel'd chaise. 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

* But as for her, she stay'd at home. 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you use to come, 
She look'd with discontent. 

' She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf ; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

' Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 



' A light wind chased her on the wing, 

And in the chase grew wild. 
As close as might be would he cling 

About the darling child : 

' But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir. 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, 

And turn'd to look at her. 

' And here she came, and round me play'd. 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my " giant bole " ; 

' And in a fit of frolic mirth 
She strove to span my waist : 

Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

' I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands. 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

' Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold. 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold.' 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 

And shadow Sumner-chace ! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

' O yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine. 

And found, and kiss'd the name she found, 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

' A teardrop trembled from its source. 

And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse, 

But I believe she wept. 



THE TALKING OAK 



91 



' Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, 
She glanced across the plain ; 

But not a creature was in sight : 
She kiss'd me once again. 

' Her kisses were so close and kind, 

That, trust me on my word, 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 

But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

' And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd. 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

* Thrice-happy he that may caress 

The ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

' I, rooted here among the groves 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

* For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk. 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 
Could slip its bark and walk. 

' But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem. 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

' She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss, 

With usury thereto.' 

O flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea. 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 



' 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play. 
She sank her head upon her arm 

And at my feet she lay. 

' Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

' I took the swarming sound of life — 

The music from the town — 
The murmurs of the drum and fife 

And lull'd them in my own. 

' Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

' A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck, 
From head to ancle fine, 

' Then close and dark my arms I spread. 
And shadow'd all her rest — 

Dropt dews upon her golden head, 
An acorn in her breast. 

' But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

' And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

' I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

' O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss. 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this.' 



92 



LOVE AND DUTY 



Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice. 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetise 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset. 
Or lapse from hand to hand. 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery-top 
All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south -breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 

That under deeply strikes ! 
The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 

High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain. 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 



And when my marriage morn may fall, 
She, Dr)^ad-like, shall wear 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme. 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honour'd beech or lime. 
Or that Thessalian growth, 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat. 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honours that. 
Thy famous brother- oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim. 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And hunim'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 
What sequel? Streaming eyes and break- 
ing hearts ? 
Or all the same as if he had not been ? 
Not so. Shall Error in the round of 
time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart 

shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom work 

itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law 
System and empire ? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of him- 
self? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were 
all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless 

days. 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ? 
O three times less unworthy ! likewise 
thou 



LOVE AND DUTY 



93 



Art more thro' Love, and greater than 

thy years, 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will 

bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed 

to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in 

Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect 

end. 
Will some one say, Then why not ill 

for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that 

man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the 

right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a man. 
— So let me think 'tis well for thee and 

me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart 

so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me. 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half tears 

would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low 

voice. 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to 

keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in. a 

leash, 
And not leap forth and fall about thy 

neck. 
And on thy bosom (deep desired relief !) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that 

weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! 
For Love himself took part against 

himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — 
O this world's curse, — beloved but hated 

— came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and 

mine, 
And crying, ^ Who is this? behold thy 

bride,' 
She push'd me from thee. 



If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou 

knowest it all. 
Could Love part thus ? was it not well 

to speak. 
To have spoken once ? It could not but 

be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all 

things good. 
The slow sad hours that bring us all 

things ill, 
And all good things from evil, brought 

the night 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the 

heart, 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such 

tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and 

died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the 

words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking 

truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
In that brief night ; the summer night, 

that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that 

hung 
Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of 

Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had 

come. 
O then like those, who clench their 

nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose. 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain. 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, 
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd 

it,' 
And bade adieu for ever. 



94 



THE GOLDEN YEAR 



Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing 

all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended 

by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross 

thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest 

hold. 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy 

dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks con- 
tent, 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth. 
And point thee forward to a distant light, 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake 

refresh'd 
Then when the first low matin-chirp hath 

grown 
Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow 

of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded 

rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern 



THE GOLDEN YEAR 

Well, you shall have that song which 

Leonard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales : 
Old James was with me : we that day 

had been 
Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard 

there. 
And found him in Llanberis : then we 

crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half 

way up 
The counter side ; and that same song of 

his 
He told me ; for I banter'd him, and 

swore 
They said he lived shut up within himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days. 



That, setting the how much before the 

hoiv. 
Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, 

' Give, 
Cram us with all,' but count not me the 

herd! 
To which ' They call me what they 

will,' he said : 
' But I was born too late : the fair new 

forms, 
That float about the threshold of an age. 
Like truths of Science waiting to be 

caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher 

crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words, my work of 

yestermorn. 
' We sleep and wake and sleep, but all 

things move ; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her 

ellipse ; 
And human things returning on them- 
selves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 
' Ah, tho' the times, when some new 

thought can bud. 
Are but as poets' seasons when they 

flower, 
Yet oceans daily gaining on the land, 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their 

march. 
And slow and sure comes up the golden 

year. 
'When wealth no more shall rest in 

mounded heaps. 
But smit with freer light shall slowly 

melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be liker 

man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 
' Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be 

wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of 

that? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 



UL YSSES 



95 



Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 
' Fly, happy happy sails, and bear the 

Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing haven- 
ward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear 

of toll. 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
' But we grow old. Ah ! when shall 

all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the 

sea. 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? ' 
Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; where- 
upon 
' Ah, folly ! ' in mimic cadence answer'd 

James — 
' Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's 

time, 
'Tis like the second world to us that live ; 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on 

Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year. ' 
With that he struck his staff against 

the rocks 
And broke it, — ^James, — you know him, 

—old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his 

feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

' What stuff is this ! 
Old writers push'd the happy season 

back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward: 

dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every 

hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the 

death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, 

rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not 

plunge 
His hand into the bag : but well I know 



That unto him who works, and feels he 

works. 
This same grand year is ever at the 

doors.' 
He spoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast 
The steep slate -quarry, and the great 

echo flap 
And buffet round the hills, from bluff to 

bluff. 

ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king. 

By this still hearth, among these barren 

crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 

dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 

know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with 

those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and 

when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities of 

men 
And manners, climates, councils, govern- 
ments. 
Myself not least, but honour'd of them 

all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy 

Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose 

margin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled 

on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 



96 



TITHONUS 



Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it 

were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself, 
And this gxay spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labour, by slow prudence to make 

mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the 

sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, 

I mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel puffs 

her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My 

mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and 

thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and 

opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I 

are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the 

end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be 

done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon 

climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, 

my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 



Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose 

holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we 

knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and 

tho' 
We are not now that strength which in 

old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we 

are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong 

in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

TITHONUS 

The woods decay, the woods decay and 

fall, 
The vapours weep their burthen to the 

ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies 

beneath. 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white -hair'd shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of 

morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a 

man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 
\Vlio madest him thy chosen, that he 

seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God ! 
I ask'd thee, 'Give me immortality.' 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with 

a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they 

give. 



TITHONUS 



97 



But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills, 
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted 

me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left me 

maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love. 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now. 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill 

with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy 

gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet 

for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there 

comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I 

was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer 

steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure. 
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to 

mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild 

team 
Wliich love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 

arise. 
And shake the darkness from their 

loosen'd manes. 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer 

given 
Dcpartest, and thy tears are on my 

cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy 
tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, 
T 



In days far-off, on that dark earth, be 

true ? 
' The Gods themselves cannot recall their 

gifts.' 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; 

saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd 

all 
Thy presence and thy portals, v/hile I 

lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- 
warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening 

buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and 

sweet. 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing. 
While liion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled 

feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when 

the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the 

homes 
Of happy men that have the power to 

die. 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 

grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts. 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 
H 



98 LOCKSLEY HALL 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 
And the hollov/ ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, ' My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, 
' Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee. ' 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, ' I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong ; ' 
Saying, 'Dost thou love me, cousin?' weeping, 'I have loved thee long.' 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 



i 



LOCKSLE V HALL 99 



Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! 

the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
RoU'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! 

Well — -'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved- 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? 

1 will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? 

Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? 



I.OCKSLKY HALL 



I vtMUiM\iht>r ono tl^iit polish \1 : sweetly did she S|x\ik and move : 
Siu-h ;\ iMic ilo I rciucmbcr, whom to liH>k at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she horc ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. 

Cotnfort ? oiMnfort seornM o{ devils ! this is truth the poet sinj^. 
That a sorrow's erown (^{ sorrow is remembering hapi)ier things. 

Dnii^ thv memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart he put to proof, 
li\ the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on tl\e roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp llickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, p^nnting to his drunken sleep. 
To thv widow'il niarriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the ' Never, never,' vvhispcr'd by the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; 

And an eve shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. 

Nav, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trtnd)le dry. 

^Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. "^ 
V. Baby fingers, w;ixen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearncss not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

t.\ I see thee old and formal, iltted to thy petty part, 

With a little hoard o{ maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

' They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt - 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd ' — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it- — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? 
I nnself must mix with action, lest I w'ither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Kverv gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
1 have Init an angry fancy : what is that w Inch I shoulil do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in \-apour, and the winds are laid with sounvl. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels. 
And the nations do but nnunuir, snarling at each other's heels. 



L OCKSLE Y HALL loi 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide mc from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, 
When I h^ard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his s[)irit leaps within him to be gone before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men : 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see. 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
Frfjm the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-st(;rm ; 

Till the war-drum ihrobb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint : 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher. 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

et I doubt not thro' the age.-j one increasing purpose runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, anrl I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain- 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heav}'-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind. 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall di^^e, and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks. 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

: Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 



GODIVA 



103 



I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

V Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. ^ 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



I 



GODIVA 



/ ivaited for the train at Coventry ; 

I hung with grooms and porters on the 

bridge^ 
To watch the thi'ee tall spires ; and there 

I shaped 
The city s ancient legend into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 

people well. 
And loathed to see them overtax'd ; but 

she 
Did more, and underwent, and overcame, 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers 

brought 
Their children, clamouring, ' If we pay, 

we starve ! ' 
She sought her lord, and found him, where 

he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 



A yard behind. She told him of their 

tears, 
And pray'd him, ' If they pay this tax, 

they starve.' 
Wliereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 
' You would not let your little finger ache 
For such as these ? ' — ' But I would die,' 

said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by 

Paul: 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; 
' Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk ! ' — ' Alas ! ' she 

said, 
' But prove me what it is I would not do. ' 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. 
He answer'd, ' Ride you naked thro' the 

town, 
And I repeal it ; ' and nodding, as in scorn, 
He parted, with great strides among his 



So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift and 

blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, 
all 



I04 



THE DA Y- DREAM 



The hard condition ; but that she would 

loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved her 

well, 
From then till noon no foot should pace 

the street. 
No eye look down, she passing ; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and 

window barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, 

and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her 

head, 
And shower' d the rippled ringlets to her 

knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, 

slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd 
The gateway ; there she found her palfrey 

trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity : 
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode. 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for 

fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the 

spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's foot- 
fall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind 

walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and 

overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white -flower'd elder-thicket from the 

field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archv/ay in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thankless 

earth. 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 



Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will, 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, 

who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all 

at once, 
With twelve great shoclis of sound, the 

shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'dfrom a hundred 

towers, 
One after one : but even then she gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and 

crown'd. 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE DAY-DREAM 
PROLOGUE 

O Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has passed away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm. 
The reflex of a legend past. 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had. 

And see the vision that I saw. 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face. 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place 

And order'd v/ords asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE 

I 
The varying year with blade and sheaf 
Clothes and reclothes the happy plains, 



THE DAY-DREAM 



105 



Here rests the sap within the leaf, 
Here stays the blood along the veins. 

Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd, 
Faint murmurs from the meadows 
come, 

Like hints and echoes of the world 
To spirits folded in the womb. 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires. 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

Ill 

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs : 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
: Than those old portraits of old kings. 

That watch the sleepers from the wall. 



Here sits the Butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and 
there 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of-honour blooming fair ; 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimm'd with noble Mdne. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps. 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen. 

High up, the topmost palace spire. 



When will the hundred summers die. 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 

I 
Year after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purple coverlet. 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm. 

And moves not on the rounded curl 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward 
roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright : 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 



She sleeps : her breathings are not heard 
In palace chambers far apart. 

The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 
That lie upon her charmed heart. 



io6 



THE DAY-DREAM 



She sleeps : on either hand upswells 
The gold - fringed pillow lightly 
prest : 

She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 
A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE ARRIVAL 



All precious things, discover'd late. 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate. 

And draws the veil from hidden 
worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter -footed than the fox. 



The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

'They perish'd in their daring deeds.' 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

' The many fail : the one succeeds. ' 

III 

He comes, scarce knowing what he 
seeks : 

He breaks the hedge : he enters 
there : 
The colour flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fair ; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 



More close and close his footsteps 
wind : 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 



His spirit flutters like a lark. 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
' Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden eyes must be ! ' 



THE REVIVAL 

I 

A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks. 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks : 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall. 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



The hedge broke in, the banner blew. 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew. 

The parrot scream' d, the peacock 
squall'd. 
The maid and page renew'd their strife, 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and 
clackt. 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke. 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 

' By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap.' 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 



' Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention'd half an hour ago ? ' 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words return'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



THE DA Y-DREAM 



107 



THE DEPARTURE 

I 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 



* I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; ' 

• O wake for ever, love,' she hears, 

'O love, 'twas such as this and this.' 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar. 

The twilight melted into morn. 



' O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! ' 

' O happy sleep, that lightly fied ! ' 
' ' O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! ' 

' O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! ' 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapour buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 



* A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where?' 
' O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there.' 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 

MORAL 

I 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 
And if you find no moral there, 

Go, look in any glass and say. 
What moral is in being fair. 



Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The wildiveed- flower that simply blows? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 



But any man that walks the mead. 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find. 
According as his humours lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 'twere to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOI 

I 

You shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars. 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours. 
The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 



So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 
Thro' sunny decads new and strange. 

Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 
The flower and quintessence of change. 



Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 



io8 



AMPHION 



For, am I right, or am I wrung, 

To choose your own you did not care 
You'd have my moral from the song. 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song. 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All -graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower, 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd 
hopes. 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly 
join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A. sleep by kisses undissolved. 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife. 

And in the rights that name may 
give. 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life. 

And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

' What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? ' 
What wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot 
light ? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But lake it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION 

My father left a park to me. 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree, 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbours when they call, 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber ! 

'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes. 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches. 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivy- wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming, 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 

The woodbine wreaths that bind her, 
And down the middle, buzz ! she went 

With all her bees behind her ; 
The poplars, in long order due. 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shod alder from the wave. 
Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 

Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, 
Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 



i 



ST. AGNES' EVE 



109 



Old elms came breaking from the vine, 
The vine stream'd out to follow, 

And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 
From many a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see. 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree, 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves 

Look'd down, half -pleased, half- 
frighten'd. 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd ! 

Oh, nature first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile then. 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the 
twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 

'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading ; 
O Lord ! — 'tis in my neighbour's ground. 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' there. 
And Methods of transplanting trees 

To look as if they grew there. 

I The wither'd Misses ! how they prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbours dipt and cut. 

And alle3's, faded places. 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 



liut these, tho' fed with careful dirt. 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt. 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blovvs upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil. 

And years of cultivation. 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



ST. AGNES' EVE 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapour goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward. 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors,, 

And strows her lights below, 



S/J^ GALAHAD 



And deepens on and up ! the gales 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



SIR GALAHAD 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favours fall ! 
For them I battle till the end. 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The snrill bell rings, the censer swings. 

And solemn chaunts resound between. 



Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides. 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas 
morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and 
mail ; 
Rut o'er the dark a glory spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odours haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand. 

This mortal armour that I wear. 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ -harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod. 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
' O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near.' 



I 



EDWARD GRAY 



III 



So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 

EDWARD GRAY 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 
Met me walking on yonder way, 

* And have you lost your heart ? ' she said ; 

' And are you married yet, Edward 
Gray ? ' 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

' Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

' Ellen Adair she loved me well, 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

' Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
" You're too slight and fickle," I said, 

" To trouble the heart of Edward Gray." 

* There I put my face in the grass — 

Whisper'd, " Listen to my despair : 
I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! " 

* Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
" Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward Gray ! " 

' Love may come, and love may go, 
! And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree ; 
j But I will love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

' Bitterly wept I over the stone : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
I And there the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 



WILL WATERPROOF'S 
LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 

MADE AT THE COCK 

PLUMP head -waiter at The Cock, 
To which I most resort, 

How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers. 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind. 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

1 pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the wine, 
Antl lays it thrice upon my lips. 

These favour'd lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New lifeblood warm the bosom, 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans. 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns, 

By many pleasant ways. 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist. 

My college friendships glimmer. 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 



I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men. 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Wliig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes. 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons. 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of light and shade 

Comes out a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling ripe. 
The pint, you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise. 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ ? 

For since I came to live and learn. 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 



Wliich bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house. 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Where long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a birth-day coming on. 

We drink defying trouble. 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or elbow-deep in sawdust, slept. 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stow'd, when classic Canning died. 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answer'd to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this. 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout. 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger &^^ 

Than fnodern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 



113 



A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and 
good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore. 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix'd for ever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



! But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
iThe violet of a legend blow 
j Among the chops and steaks ! 
''Tis but a steward of the can, 
1 One shade more plump than common ; 
lAs just and mere a serving-man 
' As any born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me down 

; Into the common day ? 

Is it the weight of that half-crown. 



Which I shall have to 



pay, 



iFor, something duller than at first. 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit, my empty glass reversed. 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task ; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

To prove myself a poet : 
[But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 
Till they be gather'd up ; 

irhe truth, that flies the flowing can. 
Will haunt the vacant cup : 
T 



And others' follies teach us not, 
Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 

And most, of sterling worth, is what 
Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone ; 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
'Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With peals of genial clamour sent 

From many a tavern -door. 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Nor yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, 

He flash'd his random speeches, 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 

So mix for ever with the past. 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou 
last, 

At half thy real worth ? 
I hold it good, good things should pass : 

With time I will not quarrel : 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 
I 



114 



LADV CLARE 



But thou \Yilt never move from lience. 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins. 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit. 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes. 
Till mellow Death, like some late guest. 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A pint-pot neatly graven. 

LADY CLARE 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

rhey two will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day ! 

' He does not love me for my birth. 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth. 
And that is well,' said Lady Clare. 



In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, ' Who was this that went from 
thee ? ' 

' It was my cousin,' said I^ady Clare, 
' To-morrow he weds with me.' 

' O God be thank'd ! ' said Alice the 
nurse, 

' That all comes round so just and fair : 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 

And you are not the Lady Clare.' 

' Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 
my nurse ? ' 
Said Lady Clare, * that ye speak so 
wild ? ' 
' As God's above,' said Alice the nurse, 
' I speak the truth : you are my child. 

' The old Earl's daughter died at vay 
breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead.' 

' Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother,' she said, ' if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due.' 

' Nay now, my child,' said Alice the 
nurse, 

' But keep the secret for your life. 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When you are man and wife.' 

' If I'm a beggar born,' she said, 

' I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off", pull off, the brooch of gold. 
And fling the diamond necklace by.' 

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the 
nurse, 

' But keep the secret all ye can.' 
She said, ' Not so : but I will know 

If there be any faith in man.' 

' Nay now, what faith ? ' said Alice the 
nurse, 

'The man will cleave unto his right.' 
'And he shall have it,' the lady replied, 

' Tho' I should die to-night.' 



THE CAPTAIN 



115 



, ' Vet give one kiss to your motlier dear ! 
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.' 
♦O mother, mother, mother,' she said, 
* So strange it seems to me. 

' Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. 
My mother dear, if this be so. 

And lay your hand upon my head, 
And bless me, mother, ere I go.' 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 



The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And follow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
* O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? ' 

If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born,' she said, 
•And not the Lady Clare.' 

* Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 
' For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 
' Your riddle is hard to read.' 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she 
stood : 

* If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,' said he, 'the next in blood — 

* If you are not the heiress born. 

And I,' said he, ' the lawful heir. 
We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare.' 



THE CAPTAIN 

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
.So for every light transgression 

Uoom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands. 

Many a harbour-mouth. 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse. 
In the north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's colour heighten'd. 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
' Chase,' he said : the ship flew forward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated, 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom, 



Ii6 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 



Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatler'd, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd ; decks were broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was spoken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay djdng, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name, 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded, 

Pale he turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! 

Years have wander'd by, 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering. 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 

In her ear he whispers gaily, 

' If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily. 

And I think thou lov'st me well.' 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

'There is none I love like thee.' 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, tliat fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof. 
' I can make no marriage present : 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life.' 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand : 



Summer woods, about them blowing. 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
' Let us see these handsome houses 

Wliere the wealthy nobles dwell.' 
So she goes by him attended. 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great. 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer. 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly, 

Wlien beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gatewa}^ she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur. 

When they answer to his call. 
While he treads with footstep firmer. 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly. 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

' All of this is mine and thine. ' 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the colour flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes. 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove : 
But he clasp'd her like a lover. 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 



THE VOYAGE 



17 



So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burthen of an honour 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

And she murmur'd, ' Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter, 

^Vhich did win my heart from me ! ' 
S(T she droop'd and droop'd before him, 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him. 

Then before her time she died. 
Wteping, weeping late and early, 

AValking up and pacing down. 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh -house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said, 
' Bring the dress and put it on her. 

That she wore when she was wed.' 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 

THE VOYAGE 



We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbour-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy. 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round. 

And we might sail for evermore. 

II 

Warm broke the breeze against the 
brow, 
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 



The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the 
gale. 

The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel, 
And swept behind ; so quick the run. 

We felt the good ship shake and reel. 
We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 



How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night. 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire. 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 



New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes. 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove. 
Where those long swells of breaker sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



VI 

By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering 
brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 



Ii8 



S//^ LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE 



O hundred shores of happy climes, 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 

But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers. 



For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we follow'd where she led. 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd, ' O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine.' 



And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the 
sea, 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom 
pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
'A ship of fools,' he shriek'd in spite, 

* A ship of fools,' he sneer'd and 
wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 



And never sail of ours was furl'd, 
Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 

We lov'd the glories of the world, 
But laws of nature were our scorn. 



For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 
But whence were those that drove the 
sail 

Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 
And to and thro' the counter gale ? 



Again to colder climes we came. 

For still we follow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame. 

And half the crew are sick or dead, 
But, blind or lame or sick or sound. 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round. 

And we may sail for evermore. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND 
QUEEN GUINEVERE 

A FRAGMENT 

Like souls that balance joy and pain. 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapour everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between. 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen. 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong: 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran. 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan. 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year. 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring : 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 



A FAREWELL — THE BEGGAR MAID— THE EAGLE 



119 



Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the 
plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingUng bridle-reins. 

As fast she fled thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this. 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be. 
For ever and for ever. 

Flr)\\', softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
No where by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree. 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be. 
For ever and for ever. 



THE BEGGAR MAID 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say 
Bare -footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 



In robe and crown the king stept down. 
To meet and greet her on her way ; 

' It is no wonder,' said the lords, 
' She is more beautiful than day.' 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ancles, one her eyes. 

One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

' This beggar maid shall be my queen !' 



THE EAGLE 

FRAGMENT 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls. 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow : 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go ; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light. 

And move me to my marriage-morn. 
And round again to happy night. 



Come not, when I am dead. 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst 
not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the plover 
cry; 

But thou, go by. 



THE LETTERS— THE VISION OF SIN 



Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of 
Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where 
I lie: 

Go by, go by. 



THE LETTERS 



Still on the tower stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
' Cold altar. Heaven and earth shall meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow.' 



I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human 
heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong. 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colours I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips comprest. 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings. 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could 
please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 



She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead. 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 



' No more of love ; your sex is known : 
T never will be twice deceived. 

Henceforth I trust the man alone. 
The woman cannot be believed. 



' Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell- 

And women's slander is the worst. 
And you, whom once I lov'd so well, 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst.' 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms- 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 



We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. 

And sweet the vapour-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile. 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells 
' Dark porch,' I said, 'and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriage bells. 



THE VISION OF SIN 



I HAD a vision when the night was late : 
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that would 

have flown. 
But that his heavy rider kept him down. 
And from the palace came a child of sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led him in, 
Where sat a company with heated eyes. 
Expecting when a fountain should arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and 

capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

shapes, 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 

and piles of grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow sound. 
Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 



THE VISION OF SIN 



Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 

[Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd, 
Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale, 

jjiSwung themselves, and in low tones re- 

; plied ; 

ITill the fountain spouted, showering wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and died ; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they 

waited, 
As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale. 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, 

;Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, changed in hue. 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 

■Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 

I Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 

[Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 

I Like to Furies, like to Graces, 

pash'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 

Ill 

Aiid then I look'd up toward a mountain- 
tract, 
[That girt the region with high cliff and 

lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made Himself an awfiil rose of dawn, 
I Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, 
From those still heights, and, slowly 

drawing near, 
A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold. 
Came floating on for many a month and 

year. 
Unheeded : and I thought I would have 
spoken, 



And warn'd that madman ere it grew too 

late: 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 

was broken, 
When that cold vapour touch'd the palace 

gate, 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as 

death, 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



' Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in. 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

' Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the flower of life is past : 

It is long before you wed. 

' Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour. 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

' I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine. 

' Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day, 

When the rotten woodland drips. 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

' Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

' Let me screw thee up a peg : 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine 

Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

' Thou shalt not be saved by works : 
Thou hast been a sinner too : 

Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 



122 



THE VISION OF SIN 



' Fill the cup, and fill the can : 


' Greet her with applausive breath. 


Plave a rouse before the morn : 


Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; 


Every moment dies a man, 


In her right a civic wreath, 


Every moment one is born. 


In her left a human head. 


* We are men of ruin'd blood ; 


' No, I love not what is new ; J 


Therefore comes it we are wise. 


She is of an ancient house : jM 


Fish are we that love the mud. 


And I think we know the hue t^k 


Rising to no fancy-flies. 


Of that cap upon her brows. ^^k 


' Name and fame ! to fly sublime 


' Let her go ! her thirst she slakes ^| 


Thro' the courts, the camps, the 


Where the bloody conduit runs. 


schools, 


Then her sweetest meal she makes 


Is to be the ball of Time, 


On the first-born of her sons. 


Bandied by the hands of fools. 






' Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 


' Friendship ! — to be two in one — 


Visions of a perfect State : 


Let the canting liar pack ! 


Drink we, last, the public fool. 


Well I know, when I am gone, 


Frantic love and frantic hate. 


How she mouths behind my back. 






' Chant me now some wicked stave. 


' Virtue ! — to be good and just — 


Till thy drooping courage rise. 


Every heart, when sifted well, 


And the glow-worm of the grave 


Is a clot of warmer dust, 


Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 


Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 






' Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 


' ! we two as well can look 


Set thy hoary fancies free ; 


. Whited thought and cleanly life 


What is loathsome to the young 


As the priest, above his book 


Savours well to thee and me. 


Leering at his neighbour's wife. 






' Change, reverting to the years, 


' Fill the cup, and fill the can : 


When thy nerves could understand 


Have a rouse before the morn : 


What there is in loving tears. 


Every moment dies a man. 


And the warmth of hand in hand. 


Every moment one is born. 






' Tell me tales of thy first love — 


* Drink, and let the parties rave : 

They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 
Rising, falling, like a wave, 


April hopes, the fools of chance ; 
Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 


For they know not what they mean. 




< He that roars for liberty 


' Fill the can, and fill the cup : 


Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 


All the windy ways of men 


And the tyrant's cruel glee 


Are but dust that rises up. 


Forces on the freer hour. 


And is lightly laid again. 


' Fill the can, and fill the cup : 


' Trooping from their mouldy dens 


All the windy ways of men 


The chap-fallen circle spreads : 


Are but dust that rises up. 


Welcome, fellow-citizens, 


And is lightly laid again. 


Flollov/ hearts and empty heads ! 



THE VISION OF SIN 



[23 



' Vou are bones, and what of that ? 

Every face, however full. 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

' Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bones. 

♦ No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

' Lo ! God's likeness — the ground-plan— 
Neither modell'd, glazed, nor framed 

Luss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

' Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Dlink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

'Thou art mazed, the night is long. 
And the longer night is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

' Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

' Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 

Dregs of life, and lees of man : 
Yet we will not die forlorn.' 



The voice grew faint : there came a 
further change : 

Once more uprose the mystic mountain- 
range : 

Below were men and horses pierced with 
worms. 

And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 

By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of 
dross. 

Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 
with moss. 



Then some one spake : ' Behold ! it was 

a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with 

time.' 
Another said : ' The crime of sense 

became 
The crime of malice, and is equal blame. ' 
And one : ' He had not wholly quench'd 

his power ; 
A little grain of conscience made him 

sour.' 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, ' Is there any hope ? ' 
To which an answer peal'd from that high 

land. 
But in a tongue no man could understand ; 
And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS 

' Cursed be he that moves my bones.' 

Shakespeare's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die. 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

' Proclaim the faults he would not show ; 
Break lock and seal : betray the trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just 

The many-headed beast should know.' 



124 



TO E. Z., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE 



Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 

A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
No public life was his on earth, 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown and 
knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree. 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS 
IN GREECE 

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass, 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 

And trust me while I turn'd the page, 
And track'd you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. . 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad -limb'd Gods at random 
thrown 

By fountain-urns ;— and Naiads oar'd 

A glimnaering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 



From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks 
To him who sat upon the rocks. 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could uttc . 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose. 
He pass'd by the town and out of the 
street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the 
sun. 
And waves of shadow went over the 
wheat. 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet. 
That made the wild-swan pause in her 
cloud, 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly. 

The snake slipt under a spray. 
The wild hawk stood with the down on 
his beak. 

And stared, with his foot 'on the prey. 
And the nightingale thought, ' I have 
sung many songs. 

But never a one so gay, 
P'or he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away.' 



ENOCH ARDEN 



125 



ENOCH ARDEN 

AND OTHER POEMS 



ENOCH ARDEN 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a 

chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow 

sands ; 

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; and 

higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd 

mill; 

And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port. 
And Philip Ray the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 
Hard coils of cord age, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up- 
drawn ; 

And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff" : 
In this the children play'd at keeping 

house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next. 
While Annie still was mistress ; but at 

times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 

* This is my house and this my little wife.' 

* Mine too ' said Philip ' turn and turn 

about : ' 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger- 
made 



Was master : then would Philip, his blue 

eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of 

tears, 
Shriek out ' I hate you, Enoch,' and at 

this 
The little wife W'ould weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her 

sake. 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood 

past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending 

sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his 

love. 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it 

not. 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes. 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a 

home 
For Annie : and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten 

coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a 

year 
On board a merchantman, and made 

himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd a 

life 
From the dread sweep of the down -stream- 
ing seas : 
And all men look'd upon him favourably : 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth 

May 



126 



ENOCH ARDEN 



He purchased his own boat, and made a 

home 
For Annie, neat and nestUke, halfway up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward 

the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and 

small. 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as heclimb'd the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the 

pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand. 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, 

groan'd. 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in merry- 
making. 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and 

past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang 
the bells. 

And merrily ran the years, seven happy 
years. 

Seven happy years of health and com- 
petence, 

And mutual love and honourable toil ; 

With children ; first a daughter. In him 
woke. 

With his first babe's first cry, the noble 
wish 

To save all earnings to the uttermost, 

And give his child a better bringing-up 

Than his had been, or hers ; a wish re- 
new'd. 

When two years after came a boy to be 

The rosy idol of her solitudes. 



While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas. 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean- 
spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter 

gales. 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down. 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's minister- 
ing. 

Then came a change, as all things 

human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering on 

a mast 
In harbour, by mischance he slipt and 

fell: 
A limb was broken when they lifted 

him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his 

wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on him 

fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing 

man. 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, he loved, a beggar : then he 

pray'd 
' Save them from this, whatever comes to 

me.' 
And while he pray'd, the master of that 

ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- 
chance. 
Came, for he knew the man and valued 

him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would 

he go? 



ENOCH ARDEN 



[27 



There yet were many weel^s before she 

sail'd, 
ail'd from this port. Would Enoch 

have the place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 



So now that shadow of mischance 

appear'd 

r'No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the 

wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what 

to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 

plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her 

well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd 

in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his 

horse — 
'And yet to sell her — then with what she 

brought 
Buy goods and stores— set Annie forth 

in trade 
; With all that seamen needed or their 

wives — 
So might she keep the house while he 
p was gone. 

j Should he not trade himself out yonder ? 

go 
This voyage more than once ? yea twice 

or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his 

own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie 

pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 

limbs, 



Appraised liis weight and fondled father- 
like, 
Cut had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring 
had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea- 
friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set 

his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and 

stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and 

axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to 

hear 
Her own death - scaffold raising, shrill'd 

and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful 

hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd 

all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; 

and he, 
WTio needs would work for Annie to the 

last. 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of fare- 
well 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears. 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to 

him. 
V^et Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 



128 



ENOCH ARDEN 



Where God-in-man is one with man-in- 

God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said 
' Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you 

know it.' 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle ' and 

he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts. 
And make him merry, when I come home 

again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go. ' 

Him running on thus hopefully she 

heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he 

turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she 

heard. 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village 

girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the 

spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke ' O Enoch, you 
are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more. ' 

'Well then,' said Enoch, ' I shall look 

on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) get you a seaman's 

glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your 

fears. ' 

But when the last of those last moments 
came, 
' Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted. 
Look to the babes, and till I come again 



Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor 

holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it.' 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping 

wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him 

Enoch said 
' Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how 

should the child 
Remember this ? ' and kiss'd him in his 

cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily 

caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went 

his way. « 

She when the day, that Enoch 

mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on 

deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for 

him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his 

grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his, 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding ' what would Enoch 

sa}' ? ' 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 



ENOCH ARDEN 



129 



And pressure, had she sold her wares for 

less 
Than what she gave m buying what she 

sold : 
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; and 

thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly -born 

and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless. 
Whether her business often call'd her from 

it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could 

tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried 

it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her 

peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon 

her). 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
' Surely,' said Philip, ' I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort ; ' therefore 

went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one. 
Cared not to look on any human face. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and 

wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly 
'■ Annie, I came to ask a favour of you. ' 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd 
reply 
* Favour from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! ' half abash'd him ; yet unask'd. 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 
T 



' I came to speak to you of what he 

wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong 

man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the 

world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the where- 
withal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was 

his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were 

lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 
If he could know his babes were running 

wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 

now — 
Have we hot known each other all our 

lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 
This is the favour that I came to ask.' 

Then Annie with her brows against the 

wall 
Answer'd ' I cannot look you in the face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke me 

down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks 

me down ; 
But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me : 
He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours.' 

And Philip ask'd 
' Then you will let me, Annie ? ' 

There she turn'd, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon 
him. 



[30 



ENOCH ARDEN 



And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passion- 
ately, 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to 

school, 
And bought them needful books, and 

everyway, 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Annie's 

sake. 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port. 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish. 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he 

sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and 

fruit. 
The late and early roses from his wall, 
Or conies from the down, and now and 

then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the 

waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's 

mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came 

upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a "broken word to thank him 

with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they 

ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were 

they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with 

him 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip 

gain'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 



Going we know not where : and so ten 

years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native 

land. 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch 

came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children 

long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood. 
And Annie would go with them ; then 

they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom- 
dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and 

saying to him 
' Come with us Father Philip ' he denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to 

go, 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their 

wish. 
For was not Annie with them ? and they 

went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, ' Let me rest ' she 

said : 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant 

cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a 

plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent 

or broke _, 

The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the 

wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark 

hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded 

Hfe 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



131 



Lifting his honest forehead, ' Listen, 

Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the 

wood. ' 

Tired, Annie ? ' for she did not speak a 

word. 
'"Tired ? ' but her face had fall'n upon her 

hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
'The ship was lost,' he said, 'the ship 

was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill 

yourself 
And make them orphans quite ? ' And 

Annie said 
' I thought not of it : but — I know not 

why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary,' 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer 

spoke. 
' Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first came 

there, 
I know that it will out at last. O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance. 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living ; well then — let me 

speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so 

quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 

you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would 

prove 
A father to your children : I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine 

own ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife. 
That after all these sad uncertain years. 
We might be still as happy as God 

grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon it : 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and 

yours : 



And we have known each other all our 

lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you 

know.' 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she 

spoke : 
' You have been as God's good angel in 

our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for 

Philip, with something happier than my- 
self. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever 

loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask? ' 
' I am content ' he answer'd ' to be loved 
A little after Enoch.' ' O ' she cried, 
Scared as it were, ' dear Philip, wait a 

while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! ' Philip sadly said 

' Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little.' 'Nay' she 

cried 
' I am bound : you have my promise — in 

a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide 

mine ? ' 
And Philip answer'd ' I will bide my 

year. ' 

Here both were mute, till Philip 

glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, 

rose 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the 

wood. 
Up came the children laden with their 

spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his 

hand, 
Saying gently ' Annie, when I spoke to 

you, 



132 



ENOCH ARDEN 



That was your hour of weakness. I was 

wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are 

free.' 
Then Annie weeping answer'd ' I am 

bound.' 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it 

were, 
While yet she went about her household 

ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she 

knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again. 
And there he stood once more before her 

face, 
Claiming her promise. ' Is it a year ? ' 

she ask'd. 
' Yes, if the nuts ' he said ' be ripe again : 
Come out and see.' But she — she put 

him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a 

month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was 

bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with 

his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
* Take your own time, Annie, take your 

own time.' 
And Annie could have wept for pity of 

him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost. 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle 

with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own 

minds, 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 



Would hint at worse in either. Her own 

son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew' 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things 

fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign 'my Enoch is he gone?' 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall 

of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her 

heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a 

light, J 

Then desperately seized the holy Book, 9 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, ^ 

Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
' Under the palm-tree. ' That was nothing 

to her : 
No meaning there : she closed the Book 

and slept : 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 
' He is gone,' she thought, ' he is happy, 

he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be 

palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 
" Hosanna in the highest ! " ' Here she 

woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to 

him 
' There is no reason why we should not 

wed.' 
'Then for God's sake,' he answer'd, 'both 

our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once.' 

So these were wed and merrily rang the 
bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, ,j 



ENOCH ARDEN 



She knew not whence ; a whisper on her 

ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, 

often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to 

her state, 
Being with child : but when her child was 

born, 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd. 
Then the new mother came about her 

heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously 

sail'd 
The ship ' Good Fortune,' tho' at setting 

forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 

shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair. 
She passing thro' the summer world again. 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and 
bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those 

times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first 

indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. 
Scarce-rocking, her full -busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her 

bows : 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds 

variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and 

last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless 

heavens 



Till hard upon the cry of ' breakers ' came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the 

night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken 

spars. 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing 

roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of 

palm, a hut. 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the 

three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than 
boy. 

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and 
wreck. 

Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in- 
life. 

They could not leave him. After he was 
gone, 

The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 

And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself. 

Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 

In those two deaths he read God's warn- 
ing ' wait.' 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the 

lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to 

Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of 

plumes. 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and 

ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world. 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had 

seen 



134 



ENOCH ARDEN 



He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering on the 

reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that 

branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day 

long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed them- 
selves in Heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to 

watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms 

moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, 

known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small 

house. 
The climbing street, the mill, the leaf}^ 

lanes. 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the 

chill 
November dawns and dewy -glooming 

downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying 

leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-colour'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his 
ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 



Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started 
up 

Shuddering, and when the beauteous 
hateful isle 

Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 

Spoken with That, which being every- 
where 

Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem 
all alone. 

Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and 

went 
Year afteryear. His hopes to see his own. 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely 

doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by bafiiing 

winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined 

course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where 

she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fiU'd the 

shores 
With clamour. Downward from his 

mountain gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely 

clad. 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it 

seem'd. 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led the 

way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew. 
And heard them talking, hislong-bounden 

tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them under- 
stand ; 
Whom, when their casks were fill'd they 

took aboard : 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 



\ 



ENOCH ARDEN 



135 



Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it : 
And clothes they gave him and free pass- 
age home ; 
But oft he work'd among the rest and 

shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his country, or could answer 

him, 
If question'd, aught of what he cared to 

know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays, 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but ever- 
more 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- 
breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 
And that same morning officers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev'n in that harbour whence he sail'd 
before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 
But homeward — home — what home? had 

he a home ? 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that 

afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either 

chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
RoU'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world 

in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before. 
And left but narrow breadth to left and 

right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it 

down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the 

gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the 

place. 



Then down the long street having slowly 

stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the 

home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and 

his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were 

born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) 

crept 
Still downward thinking ' dead or dead 

to me ! ' 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he 

went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
He thought it must have gone ; but he 

was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow Miriam 

Lane, 
With daily -dwindling profits held the 

house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garru- 
lous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so 

bow'd. 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the 

birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his counte- 
nance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the 

tale 
Less than the teller : only when she closed 
' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and 
lost' 



136 



ENOCH ARDEN 



He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering ' cast away and lost' ; 
Again in deeper inward whispers ' lost ! ' 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face 

again ; 
' If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy.' So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove 

him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon 

him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far -blazing from the rear of Philip's 

house. 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 

street, 
The latest house to landward : but be- 
hind, 
With one small gate that open'd on the 

waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and 

wall'd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and 

stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and 

thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, 

if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch 

saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd 

board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the 

hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth he 

saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 



Stout, rosy, with his babe across his 

knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted 

hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy 

arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they 

laugh'd : 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her 

babe. 
But turning now and then to speak with 

him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and 

strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for 

he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life 

beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the 

babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the 

happiness. 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's 

love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him 

all, 
Because things seen are mightier than 

things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, 

and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast of 

doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the 

hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief. 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate under- 
foot. 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 
found, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



137 



Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and 

closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the 

waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but 

that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and 

pray'd. 

' Too hard to bear ! why did they take 

me thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer ! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to 

these ? 
They know me not. I should betray 

myself. 
Never : No father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my 

son.' 

There speech and thought and nature 

fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose 

and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again. 
All down the long and narrov/ street he 

went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, f 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
' Not to tell her, never to let her know.'* 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever- 
more 
Prayer from a living source within the 

will. 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world. 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea. 
Kept him a living soul. 'This miller's 

wife ' 
He said to Miriam 'that you spoke about, 
Has she no fear that her first husband 
lives?' 



' Ay, ay, poor soul ' said Miriam, ' fear 

enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him 

dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort ; ' and 

he thought 
' After the Lord has call'd me she shall 

know, 
I wait His time,' and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his 

hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing -nets, or 

help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of 

those days ; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself : 
Yet since he did but labour for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life 

in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the 

year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a langour 

came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no 

more. 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his 

bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfiilly. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded 

wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life 

approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of 

all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kind- 
lier hope 
On Enoch thinking ' after I am gone. 
Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last.' 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said 
' Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.' 



138 



ENOCH ARDEN 



'Dead,' clamour'd the good woman, 'hear 

him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you 

round.' 
' Swear ' added Enoch sternly ' on the 

book.' 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam 

swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
' Did you know Enoch Arden of this 

town ? ' 
' Know him ? ' she said ' I knew him far 

away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, 

he.' 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 
' His head is low, and no man cares for 

him. 
I think I have not three days more to live ; 
I am the man. ' At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
' You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a 

foot 
Higher than you be.' Enoch said again 
' My God has bow'd me down to what I 

am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice 

been changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray, 
Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his 

voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve. 
And how he kept it. As the woman 

heard. 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she for- 
bore, 
Saying only ' See your bairns before you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 

hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied : 



' Woman, disturb me not now at the 
last. 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand. 
While I have power to speak. I charge 

you now. 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for 

her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us any thing but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead. 
Who hardly knew me living, let them 

come, 
I am their father ; but she must not come. 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood 
Who will embrace me in the world -to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it, 
And I have borne it with me all these 

years. 
And thought to bear it with me to my 

grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall 

see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am 

gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort 

her : 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he.' 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roU'd his eyes upon 

her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and 

pale. 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at in- 
tervals. 



THE BROOK 



139 



Til ere came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 

abroad 
Crying with a loud voice ' A sail ! a sail ! 
I am saved ; ' and so fell back and spoke 

no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



THE BROOK 

* Here, by this brook, we parted ; I to 

the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the world 

despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and 

share. 
And mellow metres more than cent for 

cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money 

breeds. 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself 

could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that 

is. 

had he lived ! In our schoolbooks we 

say, 
Of those that held their heads above the 

crowd. 
They flourish'd then or then ; but life in 

him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist of 

green, 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook he 

loved, 
For which, in branding summers of 

Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half- English Neilgherry 

air 

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it. 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, 
To me that loved him ; for " O brook," 

he says, 



■• O babbling brook," says Edmund in 

his rhyme, 
"Whence come you?" and the brook, 

why not ? replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

' Poor lad, he died at Plorence, quite 

worn out, 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley 

bridge, 
It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and 

river meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

' But Philip chatter'd more than brook 

or bird ; 
Old Philip ; all about the fields you caught 
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer 

grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout. 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 



I40 



THE BROOK 



And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

' O darling Katie Willows, his one 

child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not 

coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the 

shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

* Sweet Katie, once I did her a good 

turn, 
Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart 

with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — the 

week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins 

then, 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost. 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The 

gate. 
Half- parted from a weak and scolding 

hinge, 
Stuck ; and he clamour'd from a case- 
ment, " Run " 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
" Run, Katie ! " Katie never ran : she 

moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine 

bowers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down. 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

' What was it ? less of sentiment than 
sense 
Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those 
Wlio dabbling in the fount of Active tears, 
And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philan- 
thropies. 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the 
Deed. 



' She told me. She and James had 

quarrell'd. Why ? 
What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, 

no cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest 

the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jea- 
lousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James ? 

I said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from 

mine, 
And sketching with her slender pointed 

foot 
Some figure like a wizard pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 
If James were coming. " Coming everv 

day," 
She answer'd, "ever longing to explain, 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, and broke 

him short ; 
And James departed vext with him and 

her." 
How could I help her? "Would I — was 

it wrong ? " 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she 

spoke) 
' ' O would I take her father for one hour, 
For one half-hour, and let him talk tome ! " 
And even while she spoke, I saw where 

James 
Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow- 
sweet. 

' O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake ! 

For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 

To show the farm : full willingly he rose : 

He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling 
lanes 

Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went. 

Fie praised his land, his horses, his 
machines ; 

He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, 
his dogs ; 

He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea- 
hens : 



THE BROOK 



14] 



His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own 

deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat he 

took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming 

each, 
And naming those, his friends, for whom 

they were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley 

chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse 

and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and 

said : 
"That was the four-year-old I sold the 

Squire." 
And there he told a long long-winded tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt at 

grass. 
And how it was the thing his daughter 

wish'd. 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price he 

ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was 

mad. 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung; 
He gave them line : and five days after 

that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd something 

more. 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung ; 
He knew the man ; the colt would fetch 

its price ; 
He gave them line : and how by chance 

at last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot. 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the farm. 
And, talking from the point, he drew 

him in. 
And there he mellow'd all his heart with 

ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. 



' Then, while I breathed in sight of 
haven, he. 
Poor fellow, could he help it ? recom- 
menced. 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the 

Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling 

sun, 
And following our own shadows thrice 

as long 
As when they foUow'd us from Philip's 

door. 
Arrived and found the sun of sweet con- 
tent 
Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things 
well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

Yes, men may come and go ; and these 

are gone. 
All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, 

sleeps. 
Not by the well-known stream and rustic 

spire, 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he. 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 

words 
Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 



142 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other stars, 
And breathes in April-autumns. All are 
gone.' 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his 

mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the 

brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a 

low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the 

hedge 
The fragile bindweed -bells and briony 

rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a maiden 

near. 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he 

stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the 

shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit with- 
in : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her * Are you 

from the farm ? ' 
' Yes ' answer'd she. ' Pray stay a little : 

pardon me ; 
What do they call you ? ' ' Katie.' ' That 

were strange. 



What 



Willows.' 



No! 



'That is my name.' 
' Indeed ! ' and here he look'd so self- 

perplext. 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, 

till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he 

wakes. 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in 

his dream. 
Then looking at her ; ' Too happy, fresh 

and fair. 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best 

bloom. 
To be the ghost of one who bore your 

name 
About these meadows, twenty years ago. ' 



' Have you not heard ? ' said Katie, 

' we came back. 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her ? so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her English days, 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come 

with me. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
But she — you will be welcome — O, come 

in!' 



AYLMER'S FIELD 

1793 

Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust, 

our pride 
Looks only for a moment whole and 

sound ; 
Like that long-buried body of the king, 
Found lying with his urns and ornaments, 
Which at a touch of light, an air of 

heaven, 
Slipt into ashes, and was found no more. 

Here is a story which in rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I 

saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who had 

served. 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, 
And been himself a part of what he told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that almighty 

man. 
The county God — in whose capacious 

ha^l, 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family 

tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 

king— 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the 

spire. 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry- 
gates 
And swang besides on many a windy 

sign— 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



143 



Saw from his windows nothing save his 

own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than 

her, 
His only child, his Edith, whom he loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully ? 
But ' he that marries her marries her 

name' 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself and 

wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly 

more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled 

corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A sleepy land, where under the same 

wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year by 

year ; 
Where almost all the village had one 

name ; 
Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at the 

Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 
Were open to each other ; tho' to dream 
That Love could bind them closer well 

had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard 

his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the 

land. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd 

it so. 
Somewhere beneath his own low range 

of roofs. 
Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 
There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage 

once. 
When the red rose was redder than itself. 
And York's white rose as red as Lfvn- 

caster's, 



With wounded peace which each had 

prick'd to death. 
' Not proven ' Averill said, or laughingly 
' Some other race of Averills ' — prov'n 

or no. 
What cared he ? what, if other or the 

same? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neighbour- 
hood. 
Would often, in his walks with Edith, 

claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing 
him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, 

that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, 

beam'd. 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold. 
Their best and brightest, when they dwelt 

on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, 
But subject to the season or the mood. 
Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glory varying to and fro. 
We know not wherefore ; bounteously 

made, 
And yet so finely, that a troublous touch 
Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a 

day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the 

first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, 

hers : 
So much the boy foreran ; but when his 

date 
Doubled her own, for want of playmates, 

he 
(Since Averill was a decad and a half 
His elder, and their parents underground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and 

roll'd 



144 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone 

swing, 
Made blossom -ball or daisy -chain, ar- 
ranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it 

green 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the 

grass. 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 
The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, 
Or from the tiny pitted target blew 
What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd 
All at one mark, all hitting : make-be- 
lieves 
For Edith and himself : or else he forged. 
But that was later, boyish histories 
Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, 

wreck. 
Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true 

love 
Crown'd after trial; sketches rude and 

faint. 
But where a passion yet unborn perhaps 
Lay hidden as the music of the moon 
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 
And thus together, save for college-times 
Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang, 
Or Heaven in lavish bounty moulded, 

grew. 
And more and more, the maiden woman - 

grown. 
He wasted hours with Averill ; there, 

when first 
The tented winter-field was broken up 
Into that phalanx of the summer spears 
That soon should wear the garland ; there 

again 
When burr and bine were gather'd ; 

lastly there 
At Christmas ; ever welcome at the Hall, 
On whose dull sameness his full tide of 

youth * 

Broke with a phosphorescence charming 

even 
My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid 
No bar between them : dull and self- 
involved, 



Tall and erect, but bending from his 

height 
With half - allowing smiles for all the 

world. 
And mighty courteous in the main — his 

pride 
Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — 
He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 
Would care no more for Leolin's walking 

with her 
Than for his old Newfoundland's, when 

they ran 
To loose him at the stables, for he rose 
Twofooted at the limit of his chain, 
Roaring to make a third : and how should 

Love, 
Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance- 
met eyes 
Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow 
Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 
Seldom, but when he does. Master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that 

they loved. 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broker 

ring jJ 

Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, ^ 
Wander'd at will, and oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that 

hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her 

peace, 
Might have been other, save for Leolin's — 
Who knows ? but so they wander'd, hour 

by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and 

drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself. 
For out beyond her lodges, where the 

brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the labourers' 

homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls 
That dimpling died into each other, huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in 

bloom. 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



145 



Her art, her hand, her counsel all had 

wrought 
About them : here was one that, sunimer- 

blanch'd. 
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's- 
joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 
The warm -blue breathings of a hidden 

hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honey- 
suckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another wore 
A close -set robe of jasmine sown with 

stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it ; this, a milky-way on earth. 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's 

heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves 
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 
Each, its own charm ; and Edith's every- 
where ; 
And Edith ever visitant with him. 
He but less loved than Edith, of her 

poor : 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving. 
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she 

past, 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing 
! by, 

j Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
\ Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
: A splendid presence flattering the poor 
j roofs 

Revered as theirs, but kindlier than them- 
selves 
\ To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
I Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A 

grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the 

heart, 
A childly way with children, and a laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage true, 
Were no false passport to that easy realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side the 
girl, 



Nursing a child, and turning to the 

warmth 
The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles, 
Heard the good mother softly whisper 

' Bless, 
God bless 'em : marriages are made in 

Heaven.' 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to 

her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman unannounced 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair ; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the 

hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he 

dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day, 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron ' Good ! my lady's kinsman ! 

good ! ' 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd. 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off, 
Busying themselves about the flowerage 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in 

which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she, 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those 

days : 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his 

life: 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye. 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife - hunting, as the rumour ran, was 

he: 
I know not, for he spoke not, only 

shower'd 
His oriental gifts on everyone 
And most on Edith : like a storm he 

came. 
And shook the house, and like a storm 

he went. 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 



146 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



When others had been tested) there was 

one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd 

itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence 

at first. 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got it ; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their last 

below. 
Was climbing up the valley ; at whom 

he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which he 

clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when now 

admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please. 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 



And Leolin, coming after he was gone. 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy scab- 
bard, saying 
' Look what a lovely piece of workman- 
ship ! ' 
Slight was his answer ' Well — I care not 

for it : ' 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd 

his hand, 
' A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! ' 
' But would it be more gracious ' ask'd 

the girl 
' Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? ' ' Gracious ? No ' said he. 
* Me ? — but I cared not for it. O pardon 

me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself.' 
' Take it ' she added sweetly, ' tho' his 

gift ; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than you, 
I care not for it either ; ' and he said 
' Why then I love it : ' but Sir Aylmer 

past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing he 
heard. 



The next day came a neighbour. 

Blues and reds 
They talk'd of : blues were sure of it, he 

thought : 
Then of the latest fox — where started — 

kill'd 
In such a bottom : ' Peter had the brush, 
My Peter, first : ' and did Sir Aylmer know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been 

caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to 

hand. 
And rolling as it were the substance of it 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 
' The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him ; 
We have him now : ' and had Sir Aylmer 

heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ringing 

of it— 
This blacksmith border - marriage — one 

they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could trust 

a child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd accent) 

think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 
So freely with his daughter? people 

talk'd— 
The boy might get a notion into him ; 
The girl might be entangled ere she knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening 

spoke : 
' The girl and boy, Sir, know their differ- 
ences ! ' 
'Good,' said his friend, 'but watch!' 

and he, ' Enough, 
More than enough, Sir ! I can guard my 

own.' 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the 
house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same 
night ; 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



147 



Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough 

piece 
Of early rigid colour, under which 
I Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon 

him 
A piteous glance, and vanished. He, as 

one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets. 
Turning beheld the Powers of the House 
On either side the hearth, indignant ; 

her. 
Cooling her false cheek with a featherfan, 
Him, glaring, by his own stale devil 

spurr'd. 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing 

hard. 
' Ungenerous, dishonourable, base, 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with 

her, 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their 

lands, 
The last remaining pillar of their house. 
The one transmitter of their ancient name, 
Their child.' ' Our child ! ' ' Our 

heiress ! ' ' Ours ! ' for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said, 
' Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to 

make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of 

mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised on 

her, 
I\rplext her, made her half forget herself, 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible, 
Far as we track ourselves — I say that 

this — 
Else I withdraw favour and countenance 
From you and yours for ever — shall you 

do. 
Sir, when you see her — but you shall not 

see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, but 

me : 
And you shall say that having spoken 

with me, 
And after look'd into yourself, you find 



That you meant nothing — as indeed you 

know 
That you meant nothing. Such a match 

as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious ! ' These were 

words. 
As meted Iw his measure of himself. 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after 

which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, ' I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her, 
Never oh never,' for about as long 
As the wind -hover hangs in balance, 

paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm 

within. 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and 

crying 
• Boy, should I find you by my doors 

again. 
My men shall lash }-ou from them like a 

dog; 
Hence ! ' with a sudden execration drove 
The footstool from before him, and arose ; 
So, stammering ' scoundrel ' out of teeth 

that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man 
Follow'd, and under his own lintel stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but 

now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and de- 

form'd. 

Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the 

ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the 

land, 
Went Leohn ; then, his passions all in 

flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his 

brother's ran. 
And foam'd away his heart at Averill's 

ear : 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, 

amazed : 



148 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



The man was his, had been his father's, 

friend : 
He must have seen, himself had seen it 

long ; 
He must have known, himself had known : 

besides, 
He never yet had set his daughter forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the west. 
Where our Caucasians let themselves be 

sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd 

Leolin to him. 
' Brother, for I have loved you more as 

son 
Than brother, let me tell you : I myself— 
What is their pretty saying ? jilted, is it ? 
Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 
Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 

shame 
The woman should have borne, humili- 
ated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I seem'd again to 

grow. 
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you : I know her : the worst 

thought she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 
She must prove true : for, brother, where 

two fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and love 

are strength, 
And you are happy : let her parents be.' 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 
them — 

Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, 
wealth, 

Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth 
enough was theirs 

For twenty matches. Were he lord of 
this, 

Why twenty boys and girls should marry 
on it, 

And forty blest ones bless him, and him- 
self 

Be wealthy still, ay v/ealthier. He be- 
lieved 



This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon 

made 
The harlot of the cities : nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soul v/ith body. Name, 

too ! name. 
Their ancient name ! they might be 

proud ; its worth 
Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she 

had look'd 
Darling, to-night ! they must have rated 

her 
Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant- 
lords, 
These partridge-breeders of a thousand 

years. 
Who had mildew'd in their thousands, 

doing nothing 
Since Egbert — why, the greater their 

disgrace ! 
Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that ! 
Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? fools. 
With such a vantage-ground for nobleness ! 
He had known a man, a quintessence of 

man, 
The life of all — who madly loved— and he. 
Thwarted by one of these old father-fools. 
Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 
He would not do it ! her sweet face and 

faith 
Held him from that : but he had powers, 

he knew it : 
Back would he to his studies, make a name. 
Name, fortune too : the world should ring 

of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their 

graves : 
Chancellor, or what is greatest v/ould he 

be— 
' O brother, I am grieved to learn your 

grief- 
Give me my fling, and let me say my say.' 

At which, like one that sees his own 

excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but 

presently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill 

seeing 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



149 



How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and 

told 
The vintage — when this Aylmer came of 

age- 
Then drank and past it ; till at length the 

two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 
That much allowance must be made for 

men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose held. 



Yet once by night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her 

Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest 
In agony, she promised that no force, 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her : 
He, passionately hopefuUer, would go. 
Labour for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. 'Write to 

me ! 
They loved me, and because I love their 

child 
They hate me : theie is war between us, 

dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we 

must remain 
Sacred to one another.' So they talk'd. 
Poor children, for their comfort : the wind 

blew ; 
The rain of heaven, and their own bitter 

tears, 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, 

mixt 
Upon their iaces, as they kiss'd each other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task our- 
selves 

To learn a language known but smatter- 
ingly 

In phrases here and there at random, 
toil'd 



Mastering the lawless science of our law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent. 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led, 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and 

fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's 

room. 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the 

scurrilous tale, — 
Old scandals buried now seven decads deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died. 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
Were dead to him already ; bent as he was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in 

hopes. 
And prodigal of all brain-labour he, 
Charier of sleep, and wine, and exercise. 
Except when for a breathing- while at eve. 
Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran 
Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 
Harder the times v/ere, and the hands of 

power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts 

of men 
Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river- 
breeze. 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him 

breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro. 
After his books, to flush his blood with 

air. 
Then to his books again. My lady's 

cousin. 
Half-sickening of his pension'd afternoon. 
Drove in upon the student once or twice. 
Ran a Malayan amuck against the times, 
Had golden hopes for France and all 

mankind, 
Ansv/er'd all queries touching those at 

home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile. 
And fain had haled him out into the 

world, 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend 

would say 
' Screw not the chord too sharply lest it 

snap.' 



150 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger 

forth 
From where his worldless heart had kept 

it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of 

him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 
For heart, I think, help'd head : her 

letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she found 
Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 
Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he 

saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. 

But they that cast her spirit into flesh. 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued them- 
selves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her 

good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him they 

lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their 

doors. 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, 

made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the wind 
With rumour, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale, 
And laughter to their lords : but those at 

home. 
As hunters round a hunted creature draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the 

death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings in ; 
]"'orbad her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier 

farms. 
Last from her own home-circle of the 

poor 



They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet her 

cheek 
Kept colour : wondrous ! but, O mystery ! 
What amulet drew her down to that old 

oak. 
So old, that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let appear the brand of John — 
Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, 

but now 
The broken base of a black tower, a cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourishing 

spray. 
There the manorial lord too curiously 
Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust 
Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove ; 
Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read 
Writhing a letter from his child, for which 
Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 
A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly, 
But scared with threats of jail and halter 

gave 
To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 
The letter which he brought, and swore 

besides 
To play their go-between as heretofore 
Nor let them know themselves betray'd ; 

and then. 
Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, 

went 
Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot 

dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms. 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue 

brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his 

treasure-trove. 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, — 

who made ; 

A downward crescent of her minion mouth, j 
Listless in all despondence,— read ; and 

tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel the rent ; and 

burnt, I 

Now chafing at his own great self defied, jj 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of i 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



151 



In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden child, 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 
Hopeless of answer : then tho' Averill wrote 
And bad him with good heart sustain 

himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded not, 
But passionately restless came and went. 
And rustling once at night about the place. 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, 
Raging return'd : nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, 
Watch'd even there ; and one was set to 

watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd 

them all. 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once 

indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride 

in her. 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly 
Not knowing what possess'd him : that 

one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then 

ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love, 
Or ordeal by kindness ; after this 
He seldom- crost his child without a sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimo- 
nies : 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : 
So that the gentle creature shut from all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house, 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or 

men, 
Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found the 

girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of fire, 
Where careless of the household faces near, 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, 

past. 



Star to star vibrates light : may soul 

to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own 1 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? or 

why 
That night, that moment, when she named 

his name, 
Did the keen shriek ' Yes love, yes, Edith, 

yes,' 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers 

woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and 

trembling. 
His hair as it were crackling into flames, 
His body half flung forward in pursuit. 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a 

flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made the 

cry; 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day. 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with 

death 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's 

blood : 
' From Edith' was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon his 
death. 

And when he came again, his flock be- 
lieved — 

Beholding how the years which are not 
Time's 

Had blasted him — that many thousand 
days 

Were dipt by horror from his term of life. 

Yet the sad mother, for the second death 

Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of 
the first, 

And being used to find her pastor texts, 

Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying 
him 

To speak before the people of her child, 

And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day 



152 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded 

woods 
Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once ; but every roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and 

since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless 

loves 
And double death were widely murmur'd, 

left 
Their own gray tower, or plain -faced 

tabernacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, and 

those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove 
Or kerchief ; while the church, — one 

night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, 

— made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who 

tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either 

grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd 

Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labour'd 

thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse 

' Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! ' 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed half frighted all his flock : 
Then from his height and loneliness of 

grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry 

heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one 

sea. 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the 

proud, 
And all but those who knew the living 

God- 
Eight that were left to make a purer 

world — 



When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 

thunder, wrought 
Such waste and havock as the idolatries. 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of 

Heavens, 
And worshipt their own darkness in the 

Highest ? 
' Gash thyself, priest, and honour thy 

brute Baal, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself. 
For with thy worst self hast thou clothed 

thy God. 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to 

Baal. 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine 

own lusts ! — 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and flowing 

lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily grow. 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy 

God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him ; for 

thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not- a hair jm 
Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while * 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; 
i\nd tho' thou numberest with the followers 
Of One who cried, "Leave all and follow 

me." 
Thee therefore with His light about thy 

feet. 
Thee with His message ringing in thine 

ears. 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from 

Heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son. 
Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty 

God, 
Count the more base idolater of the two ; 
Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' 

the smoke. 



, 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



153 



The blight of low desires — darkening 

thine own 
To thine own likeness ; or if one of these, 
Thy better born unhappily from thee, 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight and 

fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 
By those who most have cause to sorrow 

for her— 
Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well. 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, 
Fair as the Angel that said " Hail ! " she 

seem'd, 
Who entering fill'd the house with sudden 

light. 
For so mine own was brighten'd : where 

indeed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of 

Heaven 
Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway? 

whose the babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child 

of shame 
The common care whom no one cared 

for, leapt 
To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart. 
As with the mother he had never known. 
In gambols ; for her fresh and innocent 

eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into nature's music when they saw 

her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious 

way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder 



one 



Was 



all but silence — free of alms her 

hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls 

with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's 

brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow 

smooth ! 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it 

not? 
One burthen and she would not lighten it ? 



One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of difference sparkled 

out. 
How sweetly would she glide between 

your wraths, 
And steal you from each other ! for she 

walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of 

love. 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to 

speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also 

knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy 

love. 
And these had been together from the 

first; 
They might have been together till the 

last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when 

sorely tried. 
May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt, 
Without the captain's knowledge : hope 

with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence 

with shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls, 
" My house is left unto me desolate." ' 

V\7^hile thus he spoke, his hearers wept ; 

but some. 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than 

those 
That knit themselves for summer shadow, 

scowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd 

he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but 

fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his 

head. 
Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldier- 
like. 
Erect : but when the preacher's cadence 

flow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd 

his face, 



154 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron 

mouth ; 
And 'O pray God that ho liold up' she 

thtnight 
' Or surely I shall shame myself and him.' 

' Nor yours the blame— for who beside 
your hearths 

Can take her place — if echoing me you 
cry 

" Our house is left unto us desolate " ? 

But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou 
known, 

O thou that stonest, hadst thou under- 
stood 

The things belonging to thy peace and 
ours ! 

Is there no prophet but the voice that 
calls 

Doom upon kings, or in the waste " Re- 
pent " ? 

Is not our own child on the narrow way, 

Who down to those that saunter in the 
broad 

Cries " Come up hither," as a prophet to 
us? 

Is there no stoning save with flint and 
rock ? 

Yes,' as the dead we weep for testify — 

No desolation but by sword and fire ? 

Yes, as your moanings witness, and my- 
self 

Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. 

Give me your prayers, for he is past your 
prayers. 

Not past the living ft)unt of pity in 
Heaven. 

But I that thought myself long-suffering, 
meek. 

Exceeding "poor in spirit" — how the 
words 

Have twisted back upon themselves, and 
mean 

Vileness, we are grown so proud — I 
wish'd my voice 

A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 

To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 

Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 

To inflame the tribes : but there — out 
yonder — earth 



Lightens from her own central Hell — O 

there 
The red fruit of an old idolatry — 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so 

fast. 
They cling together in the ghastly sack — 
The land all shambles — naked marriages 
Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd 

France, 
Hy shores that darken with the gathering 

wolf, 
Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 
Is this a time to madden madness then ? 
Was this a time for these to flaunt their 

pride ? 
May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense 

as those 
Which hid the Holiest from the people's 

eyes 
Fre the great death, shroud this great sin 

from all ! 
Doubtless our narrow world must canvass 

it : 
t) rather pray for those and pity them, 
Who, thro' their own desire accomplish'd, 

bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the 

grave — 
Who broke the bond which they desired 

to break. 
Which else had link'd their race with 

times to come — 
Who wove coarse webs to snare her 

purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's 

good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, 

but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's 

death ! 
May not that earthly chastisement suffice ? 
Have not our love and reverence left 

them bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter in their 

hall 
For ever and for ever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I, their guest, their host, their 

ancient friend, 



A YLMER'S FIELD 



^55 



I made by these the last of all my race, 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as 

cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the 

Lord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — 

" Behold, 
Vour house is left unto you desolate " ? ' 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no 

more : 
Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessly. 
Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a 

sense 
Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her ; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat 

aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that : fain had she closed 

them now, 
^ jt, dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she 

laid, 
Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as 

falls 
I A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and 

swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre 

face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 

years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape 
I round 

Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd 
I out 

I Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded 

ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and 

seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 



And oaken finials till he touch'd the 

door ; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot 

stood. 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 

again. 

But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one 

month. 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, 
The childless mother went to seek her 

child ; 
And when he felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the 

change. 
And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring for ever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own 

head 
Began to droop, to fall ; the man became 
Imbecile ; his one word was ' desolate ' ; 
Dead for two years before his death was 

he; 
But when the second Christmas came, 

escaped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child ; nor wanted at his 

end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tender 

hearts. 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd 

race. 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken 

down. 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into 

farms ; 
And where the two contrived their 

daughter's good, 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made 

his run, ^ 

The hedgehog underneath the plantain 

bores, 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless face. 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin 

weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



156 



SEA DREAMS 



SEA DREAMS 

A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred ; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan 

child- 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three 

years old : 
They, thinking that her clear germander 

eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, 
Came, with a month's leave given them, 

to the sea : 
For which his gains were dock'd, however 

small : 
Small were his gains, and hard his work ; 

besides. 
Their slender household fortunes (for the 

man 
Had risk'd his little) like the Httle thrift. 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep : 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he cursed his credulous- 

ness. 
And that one unctuous mouth which lured 

him, rogue. 
To buy strange shares in some Peruvian 

mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd 

a coast. 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunningcave, 
At close of day ; slept, woke, and went 

the next. 
The Sabbath, pious variers from the 

church. 
To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer, 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple men, 
Announced the coming doom, and ful- 
minated 
Against the scarlet woman and her creed ; 
For sideways up he swung his arms, and 

shriek'd 
' Thus, thus with violence,' ev'n as if he 

held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel ; ' Thus with 

violence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 
Then comes the close.' The gentle- 
hearted wife 



Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 
He at his own : but when the wordy storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced 

the shore, 
Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce 

believed 
(The sootflake of so many a summer still 
Clungto their fancies) thatthey saw, thesea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now on 

cliff. 
Lingering about the thymy promontories, 
Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 
And rosed in the east : then homeward and 

to bed : 
Where she, who kept a tender Christian 

hope, 
Haunting a holy text, and still to that 
Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 
' Let not the sun go down upon your 

wrath,' 
Said, ' Love, forgive him ' : but he did not 

speak ; 
And silenced by that silence lay the wife, 
Remembering her dear Lord who died for 

all. 
And musing on the little lives of men, 
And how they mar this little by their feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a full 

tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the 

foremost rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea- 
smoke. 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and 

fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this the 

babe, 
Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd 

and woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 
' A wreck, a wreck ! ' then turn'd, and 

groaning said, 

' Forgive ! How many will say, " for- 
give," and find 
A sort of absolution in the sound 



SEA DREAMS 



157 



To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well for- 
give, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper first? 
Too ripe, too late ! they come too late 

for use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and 

beast 
Something divine to warn them of their 

foes : 
And such a sense, when first I fronted him, 
Said, " Trust him not " ; but after, when 

I came 
To knov/ him more, I lost it, knew him 

less ; 
Fought with what seem'd my own un- 

charity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for his 

talk; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him with 

all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 
Of dust and deskwork : there is no such 

mine, 
None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold. 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the sea 

roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! ' 

' Not fearful ; fair,' 
Said the good wife, ' if every star in 

heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams ? ' 

' O yes,' he said, ' I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land. 
And I from out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the 

cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless deep 
Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved 

upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. " What a world," I 

thought, 



' ' To live in ! " but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave. 
Bright with the sun upon the stream 

beyond : 
And near the light a giant woman sat. 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that 

sings : 
And here the night-light flickering in my 

eyes 
Awoke me.' 

' That was then your dream,' she said, 
' Not sad, but sweet.' 

' So sweet, I lay,' said he, 
' And mused upon it, drifting up the 

stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still 
The motion of the great deep bore me on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon the 

brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her 

of it: 
" It came," she said, " by working in the 

mines : " 
O then to ask her of my shares, I thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook 

her head. 
And then the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thunder ; and we 

reach' d 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and 

thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep 

hill 
Trod out a path : I follow'd ; and at top 
She pointed seaward : there a fleet of 

glass. 
That, seem'd a fleet of jewels under me. 
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thunder, 

past 
In sunshine : right across its track there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold, 
Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at 

first 



158 



SEA DREAMS 



To think that in our often-ransack'd world 
Still so much gold was left ; and then I 

fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splinter 

on it, 
And fearing waved my arm to v/arn them 

off; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 
(I thought I could have died to save it) 

near'd, 
Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and 

vanish'd, and I woke, 
I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 
My dream was Life ; the woman honest 

Work ; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass 
Wreck" d on a reef of visionary gold. ' 

' Nay,' said the kindly wife to comfort 

him, 
' You raised your arm, you tumbled down 

and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine 

in it ; 
And, breaking that, you made and broke 

your dream : 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.' 

' No trifle,' groan'd the husband ; 

' yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my 

dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' ' Show me 

the books ! " 
He dodged me with a long and loose 

account. 
' ' The books, the books ! " but he, he could 

not wait. 
Bound on a matter he of life and death : 
When the great Books (see Daniel seven 

and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant me 

well ; 
And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. ' ' My dearest 

friend, 
Plave faith, have faith ! We live by faith, " 

said he : 



' ' And all things work together for tlie good 
Of those " — it makes me sick to quote him 

— last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless- 

you went. 
I stood like one that had received a blow : 
I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my 

eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far 

away, 
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd. 
Read rascal in the motions of his back, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.' 

' Was he so bound, poor soul ? ' said 

the good wife ; 
' So are we all : but do not call him, love, 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, 

forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his 

friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears 

about 
A silent court of justice in his breast, 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd: 
And that drags down his life : then comes 

what comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he 

meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you 

well.' 

' ' ' With all his conscience and one eye 

askew " — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you 

may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often, in that silent court of yours — 
"With all his conscience and one eye 

askew. 
So false, he partly took himself for true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart 

was dry. 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his 

eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for gain, 
So never took that useful name in vain, 



SEA DREAMS 



159 



Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his 

tool, 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and 

fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he 

forged, 
And snake-like slimed his victim ere he 

gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best. 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and 

Heaven, . 
To spread the Word by which himself 

had thriven." 
How like you this old satire ? ' 

' Nay,' she said, 
' I loathe it : he had never kindly heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
It awed me.' 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

— But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapour, lay, 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, 

a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when 
the note 
I Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on 
I those cliffs 

Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as 
that 
! Living within the belt) whereby she saw 
I That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no 
more. 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
\ Grave, florid, stern, as far as eyecould see, 
I One after one : and then the great ridge 

drew, 
r Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
. Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
! The statues, king or saint, or founder fell ; 



Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin 

left 
Came men and women in dark clusters 

round. 
Some crying, ' Set them up ! they shall 

not fall ! ' 
And others, ' Let them lie, for they have 

fall'n.' 
And still they strove and wrangled : and 

she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, 

to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note ; and ever as their 

shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on the 

crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd 

their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept 

away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men of 

stone, 
To the waste deeps together. 

' Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stars and high among 

the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her 

child 
High up on one of those dark minster- 
fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I 

woke. 
And my dream awed me : — well — but 

what are dreams ? 
Yours came but from the breaking of a 

glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a 

child.' 

* Child ? No ! ' said he, ' but this tide's 
roar, and his. 
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom. 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 



i6o 



SEA DREAMS 



Went both • to make your dream : but if 

there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd 

about, 
Why, that would make oar passions far 

too like 
The discords dear to the musician. No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns 

of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! ' 

' " True " indeed ! 

One of our town, but later by an hour 

Here than ourselves, spoke with me on 
the shore ; 

While you were running down the sands, 
and made 

The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow 
flap, 

Good man, to please the child. She 
brought strange news. 

Why were you silent when I spoke to- 
night ? 

I had set my heart on your forgiving him 

Before you knew. We must forgive the 
dead.' 

' Dead ! who is dead ? ' 

' The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.' 

' Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what 
heart had he 
To die of? dead ! ' 

' Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too. 
And if he did that wrong you charge him 

with. 
His angel broke his heart. But your 

rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child 

again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not 

sleep 
Without her "little birdie" ? well then, 

sleep, 
And I will sing you ' ' birdie. " ' 



Saying this, 

The woman half turn'd round from him 
she loved, 

Left him one hand, and reaching thro' 
the night 

Her other, found (for it was close be- 
side) 

And half-embraced the basket cradle- 
head 

With one soft arm, which, like the pliant 
bough 

That moving moves the nest and nestling, 
sway'd 

The cradle, while she sang this baby song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a httle longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

' She sleeps ; let us too, let all evil, 

sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than 

ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, 

dear. 
And I shall sleep the sounder ! ' 

Then the man, 
' His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to j 

come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be 

sound : 
I do forgive him ! ' 

' Thanks, my love,' she said, 
' Your own will be the sweeter,' and they j, 
slept. I 



LUCRETIUS 



i6i 



LUCRETIUS 

LuciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found 
Her master cold ; for when the morning 

flush 
Of passion and the first embrace had died 
Between them, tho' he lov'd her none the 

less, 
Yet often when the woman heard his foot 
Return from pacings in the field, and ran 
To greet him with a kiss, the master took 
Small notice, or austerely, for — his mind 
Half buried in some weightier argument, 
Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise 
And long roll of the Hexameter — he past 
To turn and ponder those three hundred 

scrolls 
Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine. 
She brook'd it not ; but wrathful, petulant. 
Dreaming some rival, sought and found 

a witch 
Who brew'd the philtre which had power, 

they said, 
To lead an errant passion home again. 
And this, at times, she mingled with his 

drink, 
And this destroy'd him ; for the wicked 

broth 
Confused the chemic labour of the blood. 
And tickling the brute brain within the 

man's 
Made havock among those tender cells, 

and check'd 
His power to shape : he loathed himself ; 

and once 
After a tempest woke upon a morn 
That mock'd him with returning calm, 

and cried : 

' Storm in the night ! for thrice I heard 
the rain 
Rushing ; and once the flash of a 
f thunderbolt — 

I Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — 
Struck out the streaming mountain-side, 
and show'd 
■ A riotous confluence of watercourses 

Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, 
• Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 
T 



Storm, and what dreams, ye holy 



Gods, what di 



Per- 



For thrice I waken'd after dreams. 

chance 
We do but recollect the dreams that come 
Just ere the waking : terrible ! foritseem'd 
A void was made in Nature ; all her bonds 
Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom- 
streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe, 
Ruining along the illimitable inane, 
Fly on to clash together again, and make 
Another and another frame of things 
For ever : that was mine, my dream, I 

knew it — 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot 

plies 
His function of the woodland : but the 

next ! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on 

earth, 
And where it dash'd the reddening mea- 
dow, sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth. 
For these I thought my dream would 

show to me. 
But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art, 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that made 
The mulberry - faced Dictator's orgies 

worse 
Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yell'd and 

round me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw — 
Was it the first beam of my latest day ? 

' Then, then, from utter gloom stood 

out the breasts. 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a 

sword 
Now over and now under, now direct. 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 

shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a fire, 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that 

I woke. 



l62 



LUCRETIUS 



' Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, 
thine, 
Because I would not one of thine own 

doves. 
Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee ? 

thine. 
Forgetful how my rich prooemion makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field, 
In lays that will outlast thy Deity ? 

' Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My 

tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Wliich of 

these 
Angers thee most, or angers thee at all ? 
Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof 
From envy, hate and pity, and spite and 

scorn, 
Live the great life which all our greatest 

fain 
Would follow, center'd in eternal calm. 

' Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like 

ourselves 
Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry 

to thee 
To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms 
Round him, and keep him from the lust 

of blood 
That makes a steaming slaughter-house 

of Rome. 

' Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant 

not her, 
Wliom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and 

tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were 

abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter 

wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous tears ; 
Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow 

forth 
The all-generating powers and genial heat 



Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the 

thick blood 
Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs 

are glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of 

flowers : 
Which things appear the work of mighty 

Gods. 

' The Gods ! and if I go my work is 

left 
Unfinish'd — if I go. The Gods, who 

haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and world, 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a 

wind. 
Nor ever falls the least white star of 

snow, 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to 

mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm ! and such, 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, the 

Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the 

Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble, 
Not follow the great law? My master 

held 
That Gods there are, for all men so 

believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. 

Meant ? I meant ? 
I have forgotten what I meant : my mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. 

' Look where another of our Gods, the 

Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you will — 
Has mounted yonder ; since he never 

sware, 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on 

wretched man. 



LUCRETIUS 



163 



That he would only shine among the dead 
Hereafter ; tales ! for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roast- 
ing ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he 

what he sees ; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, slowly 

lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of 

heaven : 
And here he glances on an eye new-born, 
And gets for greeting but a wail of pain ; 
And here he stays upon a freezing orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the 

last; 
And here upon a yellow eyelid fall'n 
And closed by those who mourn a friend 

in vain, 
Not thankful that his troubles are no 

more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 
Whether I mean this day to end myself. 
Or lend an ear to Plato where he says. 
That men like soldiers may not quit the 

post 
Allotted by the Gods : but he that holds 
The Gods are careless, wherefore need he 

care 
Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at 

once, 
Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and 

sink 
Past earthquake — ay, and gout and stone, 

that break 
Body toward death, and palsy, death-in- 
life, 
And wretched age — and worst disease of 

all. 
These prodigies of myriad nakednesses. 
And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable. 
Abominable, strangers at my hearth 
Not welcome, harpies miring every dish, 
The phantom husks of something foully 

done. 
And fleeting thro' the boundless universe, 
And blasting the long quiet of my breast 
With animal heat and dire insanity ? 



' How should the mind, except it loved 

them, clasp 
These idols to herself? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like the 

flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear 
The keepers down, and throng, their rags 

and they 
The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of the 

land ? 

' Can I not fling this horror off me 

again, 
Seeing with how great ease Nature can 

smile. 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of 

storm. 
At random ravage ? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy 

slough, 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, and 

within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of 

men? 

' But who was he, that in the garden 

snared 
Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods ? a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in myself — 
For look ! what is it ? there ? yon arbutus 
Totters ; a noiseless riot underneath 
Strikes through the wood, sets all the 

tops quivering — 
The mountain quickens into Nymph and 

Faun ; 
And here an Oread — how the sun delights 
To glance and shift about her slippery 

sides. 
And rosy knees and supple roundedness. 
And budded bosom-peaks — who this way 

runs 
Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see. 
Follows ; but him I proved impossible ; 
Twy-natured is no nature : yet he draws 
Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now 
Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 



164 



LUCRETIUS 



That ever butted his rough brother-brute 
For hist or h:sty blood or provender : 
I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and 

she 
Loathes him as well ; such a precipitate 

heel, 
Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle- 
wing, 
Whirls her to me : but will she fling 

herself, 
Shameless upon me ? Catch her, goat- 
foot : nay. 
Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilder- 
ness. 
And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! do 

I wish — 
What? — that the bush were leafless? or 

to whelm 
All of them in one massacre ? O ye Gods, 
I know you careless, yet, behold, to you 
From childly wont and ancient use I 

call— 
I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 
No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey- 
spite, 
No madness of ambition, avarice, none : 
No larger feast than under plane or pine 
With neighbours laid along the grass, to 

take 
Only such cups as left us friendly-warm, 
Afiirming each his own philosophy — 
Nothing to mar the sober majesties 
Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. 
But now it seems some unseen monster 

lays 
His vast and filthy hands upon my will. 
Wrenching it backward into his ; and 

spoils 
My bliss in being ; and it was not great ; 
For save when shutting reasons up in 

rhythm. 
Or Heliconian honey in living words. 
To make a truth less harsh, I often grew 
Tired of so much within our little life. 
Or of so little in our little life — 
Poor little life that toddles half an hour 
Crown'd with a flower or two, and there 

an end — 
And since the nobler pleasure seems to 
fade. 



Why should I, beastlike as I find myself, 
Not manlike end myself? — our privilege — 
What beast has heart to do it ? And what 

man, 
Wliat Roman would be dragg'd in triumph 

thus ? 
Not I ; not he, who bears one name with 

her 
Whose death-blow struck the dateless 

doom of kings. 
When, brooking not the Tarquin in her 

veins, 
She made her blood in sight of Collatine 
And all his peers, flushing the guiltless 

air, 
Spout from the maiden fountain in her 

heart. 
And from it sprang the Commonwealth, 

which breaks 
As I am breaking now ! 

' And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart 
Those blind beginnings that have made 

me man. 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man once more. 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower : 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour 

perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to him- 
self, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes 

and fanes. 
And even his bones long laid within the 

grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself shall pass, 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void, 
Lito the unseen for ever, — till that hour. 
My golden work in which I told a truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and 

plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal hell. 
Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails at 

last 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



[65 



And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine TranquilUty, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise. 
Who fail to find thee, being as thou art 
Without one pleasure and without one 

pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine 
Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 
How roughly men may woo thee so they 

win — 
Thus — thus : the soul flies out and dies 

in the air.' 



With that he drove the knife into his 

side : 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; 

ran in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon 

herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, fell 

on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : he answer'd, 

' Care not thou ! 
Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee 

well ! ' 



THE PRINCESS; 

A MEDLEY 



PROLOGUE 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither 

half 
The neighbouring borough with their 

Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was 

there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian - 

place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd 

the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in the 

hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than 

their names, 
Grew side by side ; and on the pavement 

lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey -ruin in the 

park, 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of 

Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 



Jumbled together ; celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, 

fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere. 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle- 
clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on 

the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and 

deer. 
His own forefathers' arms and armour 
hung. 

And ' this ' he said ' was Hugh's at 

Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at As- 

calon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him ' — which he brought, 

and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with 

knights, 
Half- legend, half- historic, counts and 

kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and 

died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that 

arm'd 



1 66 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the 

gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from 

her walls. 

' O miracle of women,' said the book, 
' O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his wish, 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a 

soldier's death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd as 

lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the 

gate, 
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' 

heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of 

the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances from 

the rock. 
And part were drown'd within the whirl- 
ing brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! ' 

So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; 
And, I all rapt in this, ' Come out,' he 

said, 
' To the Abbey : there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Lilia with the rest. ' We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down thro' the park : strange was the 

sight to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, 

sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand 

heads : 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd a 

font of stone 
And drew, from butts of water on the 

slope, 
The fountain of the moment, playing, 

now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, 
Or steep -up spout whereon the gilded 

ball 



Danced like a wisp : and somewhat lower 

down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials 

fired 
A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were tele- 
scopes 
For azure views ; and there a group of 

girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter: 

round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies : perch' d about the 

knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem -like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; other- : 

where j 

Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamour ' 

bowl'd ' 

And stump'd the wicket ; babies roU'd ; 

about ; 

Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men j 

and maids \ 

Arranged a country dance, and flew thro' 

light 
And shadow, while the twangling violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and over- 
head 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from 

end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of 

the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy- 

claspt. 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost 

they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but all 

within 
The sward was trim as any garden lawn : 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



167 



And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbour seats : and there was 

Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport. 
Half child half woman as she was, had 

wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm. 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
That made the old warrior from his ivied 

nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a 

feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the guests, 
And there we join'd them : then the 

maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it 

preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd, 
■ And all things great ; but we, unworthier, 

told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the 

spikes, 
; And he had squeezed himself betwixt the 

bars, 
And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs ; 

and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common 

men, 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads 
I saw 
The feudal warrior lady -clad ; which 

brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I 
; read 

Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
, With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of 
\ her 

That drove her foes with slaughter from 
her walls, 
I And much I praised her nobleness, and 
I 'Where,' 

\ Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay 
1 Beside him) ' lives there such a woman 
I now ? ' 



Quick answer'd Lilia 'There are thou- 
sands now 
Such women, but convention beats them 

down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than that : 
You men have done it : how I hate you 

all! 
Ah, were I something great ! I wish I 

were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you 

then. 
That love to keep us children ! O I wish 
That I were some great princess, I would 

build 
Far off from men a college like a man's, 
And I would teach them all that men are 

taught ; 
We are twice as quick ! ' And here she 

shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with her 

curls. 

And one said smiling ' Pretty were the 

sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, 

and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for 

deans. 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden 

hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns. 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or 

Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood. 
However deep you might embower the 

nest, 
Some boy would spy it.' 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
' That's your light way ; but I would 

make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us.' 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she 
laugh'd ; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns. 
And sweet as English air could make her, 
she : 



1 68 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



But Walter hail'd a score of names upon 

her, 
And ' petty Ogress,' and ' ungrateful 

Puss,' 
And swore he long'd at college, only 

long'd. 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they 

talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the 

souls of deans ; 
They rode ; they betted ; made a hundred 

friends, 
And caught the blossom of the fl>ang 

terms, 
But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place, 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he 

spoke, 
Part banter, part affection. 

'True,' she said, 
' We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd 

us much. 
I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you 

did.' 

She held it out ; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye. 
And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm. 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
And wrung it. ' Doubt my word again ! ' 

he said. 
* Come, listen ! here is proof that you 

were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read ; 
And there we took one tutor as to read : 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and 

square 
Were out of season : never man, I think. 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet, 
And our long walks were stript as bare 

as brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, 



And whafs my thought and when and 

where and how^ 
And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 
As here at Christmas.' 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she liketl 

it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men 

tell men. 
She wonder'd, by themselves ? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips ; 
And Walter nodded at me ; * He began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? 

what kind ? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms, 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter.' 

* Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer too,' 
Said Lilia ; ' Why not now ? ' the maiden 

Aunt. 
' Why not a summer's as a winter's tale ? 
A tale for summer as befits the time. 
And something it should be to suit the 

place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath. 
Grave, solemn ! ' 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock -solemn, that I 

laugh 'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden - shrilling 

mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her 

face 
With colour) turn'd to me with ' As you 

will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will. 
Or be yourself your hero if you will. ' 

'Take Lilia, then, for heroine,' clam- 

our'd he, 
' And make her some great Princess, six 

feet high. 
Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to win her ! ' 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



169 



'Then follow me, the Prince,' 
I answer'd, ' each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as required — 
But something made to suit with Time 

and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experi- 
ments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt 

them all — 
This were a medley ! we should have him 

back 
Wlio told the "Winter's tale" to doit 

for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad or a song 
To give us breathing-space.' 

So I began, 
And the rest foUow'd : and the women 

sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



A prince I was, blue -eyed, and fair in 

face. 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl. 
For on my cradle shone the Northern 

star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our 
house. 

Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire 
burnt 

Because he cast no shadow, had fore- 
told. 

Dying, that none of all our blood should 
know 

rhe shadow from the substance, and that 
one 

Should come to fight with shadows and 
l! to fall. 

For so, my mother said, the story ran. 



And, truly, waking dreams were, more or 

less. 
An old and strange affection of the house. 
Myself too had weird seizures. Heaven 

knows what : 
On a sudden in the midst of men and day, 
And while I walk'd and talk'd as hereto- 
fore, 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts. 
And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head 

cane. 
And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd 

' catalepsy.' 
My mother pitying made a thousand 

prayers ; 
My mother was as mild as any saint, 
Half-canonized by all that look'd on her. 
So gracious was her tact and tenderness : 
But my good father thought a king a king ; 
He cared not for the affection of the house ; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 
To lash offence, and with long arms and 

hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from 

the mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been. 
While life was yet in bud and blade, 

betroth'd 
To one, a neighbouring Princess : she to me 
Was proxy- wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old ; and still from time 

to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the 

South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance ; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart, 
And one dark tress ; and all around them 

both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about 

their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I 

should wed. 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these 

brought back 
A present, a great labour of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as wind : 



170 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Besides, they saw the king ; he took the 

gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that was 

true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to blame ? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live alone 
Among her women ; certain, would not 

wed. 

That morning in the presence room I 

stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two 

friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts and 

bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart. 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my 

father's face 
Grow longand troubled like a rising moon. 
Inflamed with wrath : he started on his 

feet. 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, 

and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp and 

woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he 

sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand 

men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind : then he 

chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd 

his spleen. 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. ' My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once 

seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than 

fame. 
May rue the bargain made. ' And Florian 

said : 
' I have a sister at the foreign court, 



Who moves about the Princess ; she, you 

know. 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear. 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean.' 
And Cyril whisper'd : ' Take me with you 

too.' 
Then laughing * what, if these weird | 

seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near i 
To point you out the shadow from the 

truth ! 
Take me : I'll serve you better in a strait ; , 
I grate on rusty hinges here : ' but ' No ! ' I 
Roar'd the rough king, ' you shall not ; ' 

we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council up.' 

But when the council broke, I rose and 

past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about the 

town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her like- i 

ness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying 

bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees : 
What were those fancies ? wherefore break j 

her troth ? ' 

Proud look'd the lips : but while I medi- j 

tated ! 

A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, i 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and 

the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together ; and a Voice 
Went with it, ' Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win.' 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from 

court 
With Cyril and with Florian, unperceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in dread \ 
To hear my father's clamour at our backs 
With Ho ! from some bay-window shake 

the night ; 
But all was quiet : from the bastion'd 

walls 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



171 



I Like threaded spiders, one by one, we 

I dropt, 

^ And flying reach'd the frontier : then we 

crost 
. To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and 

grange, 
; And vines, and blowing bosks of wilder- 
I ness, 

I We gain'd the mother - city thick with 
I towers, 

I And in the imperial palace found the king. 
His name was Gama ; crack'd and 
small his voice. 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling 

wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines ; 
A little dry old man, without 'a star. 
Not like a king : three days he feasted us, 
And on the fourth I spake of why we 

came, 
And my betroth'd. ' You do us. Prince,' 

he said, 
ifViring a snowy hand and signet gem, 
' All honour. We remember love our- 
selves 
In our sweet youth : there did a compact 

pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I think the year in which our olives 

fail'd. 
I would you had her, Prince, with all my 

heart, 
With my full heart : but there were 

widows here, 
Two widows, Lady Psyche, LadyBlanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of place 
■ Maintaining that with equal husbandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this ; with this our ban- 
quets rang ; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of 

talk; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
' To hear them : knowledge, so my daughter 

held, 
\ Was all in all : they had but been, she 

thought. 
As children ; they must lose the child, 

assume 



The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she 

wrote. 
Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, 
But all she is and does is awful ; odes 
About this losing of the child ; and rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason : these the women sang ; 
And they that know such things — I sought 

but peace ; 
No critic I — would call them master- 
pieces : 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd a 

boon, 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said no, 
Yet being an easy man, gave it : and 

there. 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and 

more 
We know not, — only this : they see no 

men. 
Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look 

upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much loth to 

breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but 

since 
(And I confess with right) you think me 

bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to her : 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your 

chance 
Almost at naked nothing.' 

Thus the king ; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. 

We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. 

At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land of 

hope. 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 



72 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd mine 

host 
To council, plied him with his richest 

wines, 
And show'd the late- writ letters of the 

king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then ex- 

claim'd 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, ' If the king,' he said, 
' Had given us letters, was he bound to 

speak ? 
The king would bear him out ; ' and at 

the last — 
The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
' No doubt that we might make it worth 

his while. 
She once had past that way ; he heard 

her speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw the 

like; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and as 

grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there ; 
He always made a point to post with 

mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the 

boys : 
The land, he understood, for miles about 
Was till'd by women ; all the swine were 

sows, 
And all the dogs ' — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I clothed 

in act, 
Remembering how we three presented 

Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of 

feast. 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female 

gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to 

shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden 

plumes 



We rustled : him we gave a costly bribe- 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good 

steeds. 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rode, 
And rode till midnight when the college 

lights 
Began to glitter firefly- like in copse 
And linden alley : then we past an arch. 
Whereon a woman -statue rose with 

wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against the 

stars ; 
And some inscription ran along the front, 
But deep in shadow further on we gain'd 
A little street half garden and half house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak 

for noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers 

falling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering 

down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us peal'd the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the 



There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign. 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven 

and Earth 
With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry : riding in, we call'd ; 
A plump -arm'd Ostleress and a stable 

wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd us 

down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and 

sail'd. 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which 

gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and this. 
And who were tutors. ' Lady Blanche ' 

she said, 
'And Lady Psyche.' 'Which was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured ? ' ' Lady Psyche.' 'Hers 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



173 



One voice, we cried ; and I sat down and 

wrote, 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring East ; 

'Three ladies of the Northern empire 

pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with 

your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils.' 

This I seal'd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung. 
And raised the blinding bandage from his 

eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
And then to bed, where half in doze I 

seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, and 

watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, 

swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was 

rich. 

II 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, "my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

At break of day the College Portress 

came : 
She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each. 
And zoned with gold ; and now when 

these were on, 
And we as rich as moths from dusk 

cocoons. 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 



I first, and following thro' the porch that 

sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns 

of flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd in 

threes, 
Enring'd abillowingfountain in the midst; 
And here and there on lattice edges lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper 

sat, 
With two tame leopards couch'd beside 

her throne, 
All beauty compass'd in a female form. 
The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sun 
Than our man's earth ; such eyes were in 

her head, 
And so much grace and power, breathing 

down 
From over her arch'd brows, with every 

turn 
Lived thro' her to the tips of her long 

hands. 
And to her feet. She rose her height, 

and said : 

* We give you welcome : not without 

redound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye come. 
The first-fruits of the stranger : aftertime, 
And that full voice which circles round 

the grave, 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. 
What ! are the ladies of vour land so 

tall ? ' 
' We of the court ' said Cyril. ' From 

the court ' 
She answer'd, ' then ye know the Prince ? ' 

and he : 
' The climax of his age ! as tho' there were 
One rose in all the world, your Highness 

that. 
He worships your ideal ; ' she replied : 



174 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



' We scarcely thought in our own hall to 

hear 
This barren verbiage, current among men, 
Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds 

would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of 

power ; 
Your language proves you still the child. 

Indeed, 
We dream not of him : when we set our 

hand 
To this great work, we purposed with 

ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do well. 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, 

that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you will. 
You may with those self-styled our lords 

ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with 

scale.' 

At those high words, we conscious of 

ourselves, 
Perused the matting ; then an officer 
Rose up, and read the statutes, such as 

these : 
Not for three years to correspond with 

home ; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties ; 
Not for three years to speak with any 

men ; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed. 
We enter'd on the boards : and ' Now,' 

she cried, 
' Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. 

Look, our hall ! 
Our statues ! — not of those that men 

desire. 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; but 

she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, and 

she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall. 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war, 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 



That fought Aurelian, and the Roman 

brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and 

lose 
Convention, since to look on noble forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O lift your natures 

up: 
Embrace our aims : work out your free- , 

dom. Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain 

seal'd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, 
The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Leave us : you may 

go : 
To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 
For they press in from all the provinces, 
And fill the hive.' 

She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court i 
To Lady Psyche's : as we enter'd in. 
There sat along the forms, like morning 

doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the 

thatch, 
A patient range of pupils : she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon- 
eyed. 
And on the hither side, or so she look'd, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a star. 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Agla'ia slept. We sat : the Lady glanced : 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the 

dame 
That whisper'd 'Asses' ears,' among the 

sedge, 
' My sister. ' ' Comely, too, by all that's 

fair,' 
Said Cyril. ' O hush, hush ! ' and she 

began. 

' This world was once a fluid haze of | 
light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



381 



And Vivien answer'd, smiling scorn- 
full 
' Why fear ? because that foster'd at thy 

court 
I savour of thy — virtues ? fear them ? no. 
As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out 

fear, 
So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out 

fear. 
My father died in battle against the King, 
My mother on his corpse in open field ; 
She bore me there, for born from death 

was I 
Among the dead and sown upon the 

wind — 
And then on thee ! and shown the truth 

betimes. 
That old true filth, and bottom of the well. 
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons 
"' thine 

And maxims of the mud ! " This Arthur 

pure ! 
Great Nature thro' the flesh herself hath 

made 
Gives him the lie ! There is no being 

pure, 
My cherub ; saith not Holy Writ the 

same ? " — 
If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. 
Thy blessing, stainless King ! I bring 

thee back. 
When I have ferreted out their burrow - 

ings. 
The hearts of all this Order in mine 

hand — 
Ay — so that fate and craft and folly close, 
Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden 

beard. 
To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine 
Is cleaner-fashion'd — Well, I loved thee 

first, 
That warps the wit.' 

Loud laugh'd the graceless J\Iark. 
But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged 
Low in the city, and on a festal day 
When Guinevere was crossing the great 

hall 
Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, 

and wail'd. 



' Why kneel ye there ? What evil have 

ye wrought ? 
Rise ! ' and the damsel bidden rise arose 
And stood with folded hands and%down- 

ward eyes 
Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, 
' None wrought, but sufifer'd much, an 

orphan maid ! 
My father died in battle for thy King, 
My mother on his corpse — in open field. 
The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyon- 

nesse — 
Poor wretch — no friend ! — and now by 

Mark the King 
For that small charm of feature mine, 

pursued — 
If any such be mine — I fly to thee. 
Save, save me thou — Woman of women — 

thine 
The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of 

power. 
Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's 

own white 
Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless 

King- 
Help, for he follows ! take me to thyself ! 
O yield me shelter for mine innocency 
Among thy maidens ! ' 

Here her slow sweet eyes 
Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose 
Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen 

who stood 
All glittering like May sunshine on May 

leaves 
In green and gold, and plumed with green 

replied, 
' Peace, child ! of overpraise and over- 
blame 
We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, 

him 
Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and 

know. 
Nay — we believe all evil of thy Mark — 
Well, we shall test thee farther ; but this 

hour 
We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. 
He hath given us a fair falcon which he 

train'd ; 
We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while. ' 



iAl 



382 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



She past ; and Vivien murmur'd after 
'Go! 

I bide the while.' Then thro' the portal- 
arch 

Peering askance, and muttering broken- 
wise, 

As one that labours with an evil dream, 

Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to 
horse. 

' Is that the Lancelot? goodly — ay, but 

gaunt : 
Courteous — amends for gauntness — takes 

her hand — 
That glance of theirs, but for the street, 

had been 
A clinging kiss — how hand lingers in 

hand ! 
Let go at last ! — they ride away — to hawk 
For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine. 
For such a supersensual sensual bond 
As that gray cricket chirpt of at our 

hearth — 
Touch flax with flame — a glance will serve 

— the liars ! 
Ah little rat that borest in the dyke 
Thy hole by night to let the boundless 

deep 
Down upon far-off cities while they 

dance — 
Or dream — of thee they dream'd not — 

nor of me 
These — ay, but each of either : ride, and 

dream 
The mortal dream that never yet was 

mine — 
Ride, ride and dream until ye wake — to 

me ! 
Then, narrow court and lubber King, 

farewell ! 
For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, 
And our wise Queen, if knowing that I 

know. 
Will hate, loathe, fear^ — but honour me 

the more.' 

Yet while they rode together down the 
plain, 
Their talk was all of training, terms of art. 
Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 



' She is too noble ' he said ' to check at 

pies, 
Nor will she rake : there is no baseness 

in her.' 
Here when the Queen demanded as by 

chance 
' Know ye the stranger woman ? ' ' Let 

her be,' 
Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off 
The goodly falcon free ; she tower'd ; 

her bells. 
Tone under tone, shrill'd ; and they lifted 

up 
Their eager faces, wondering at the 

strength. 
Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird 
Who pounced her quarry and slew it. 

Many a time 
As once — of old — among the flowers — 

they rode. 

But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen 
Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, 

watch'd 
And whisper'd : thro' the peaceful court 

she crept | 

And whisper'd : then as Arthur in the 1 

highest 
Leaven'd the world, so Vivien in the 

lowest. 
Arriving at a time of golden rest. 
And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, 
While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet. 
And no quest came, but all was joust and 

play, 
Leaven'd his hall. They heard and let 

her be. 

Thereafter as an enemy that has left 
Death in the living waters, and with- 
drawn. 
The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court. 

She hated all the knights, and heard in 

thought 
Their lavish comment when her name 

was named. 
For once, when Arthur walking all alone, 
Vext at a rumour issued from herself 
Of some corruption crept among his 

knights, 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



t75 



The planets : then the monster, then the 

man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins, 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down 

his mate ; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and 

here 
Among the lowest.' 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's - eye - view of all the ungracious 

past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of 

those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo ; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman 

lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in each. 
How far from just ; till warming with her 

theme 
She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 
And little - footed China, touch'd on 

Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to 

chivalry : 
'When some respect, however slight, was 

paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commenced the dawn : a 

beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, 

indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first had 

dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and 

assert 
;None lordlier than themselves but that 
; which made 

jWoman and man. She had founded ; 
I they must build. 

Here might they learn whatever men were 
! taught : 

ILet them not fear : some said their heads 
j were less : 

Some men's were small ; not they the 

least of men ; 
jFor often fineness compensated size : 



Besides the brain was like the hand, and 

grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more 

was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field ; some ages had been lost ; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since in 

truth 
The highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of the 

glebe, 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman : and in arts of government ■ 
Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others ; arts of grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man : 
And, last not least, she who had left her 

place. 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from the 

blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future ; ' everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the 

hearth. 
Two in the tangled business of the world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound 

the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more : 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous 

Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those 

rare souls. 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood 

of the world.' 

She ended here, and beckon'd us : the 
rest 
Parted ; and, glowing full-faced welcome, 
she 



176 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all 

her voice 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she 

cried 
' My brother ! ' ' Well, my sister.' ' O,' 

she said, 
' What do you here ? and in this dress ? 

and these ? 
Why who are these ? a wolf within the 

fold! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious 

to me ! 
A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! ' 
' No plot, no plot,' he answer'd. 

* Wretched boy, 
How saw you not the inscription on the 

gate. 
Let no man enter in on pain of 

DEATH ? ' 

' And if I had,' he answer'd, ' who could 

think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 
O sister, Sirens tho' they be, were such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men ? ' 
' But you will find it otherwise ' she said. 
' You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! 

my vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 
That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, 
The Princess. ' ' Well then, Psyche, take 

my life, 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning : bury me beside the gate, 
And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 
Here lies a brother by a sister slain ^ 
All for the conunon good of wojJiankind.'' 
'Let me die too,' said Cyril, 'having 

seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche.' 

I struck in : 
'Albeit so mask'd, Madam, I love the 

truth ; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she was. 
And thus (what other way was left) I 

came.' 



' O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; 

none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir ? love - whispers may not 

breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how should 

I, 

Who am not mine, say, live : the thunder-' 

bolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; it 

falls.' 
' Yet pause,' I said : ' for that inscription 

there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 
To scare the fowl from fruit : if more 

there be, 
If more and acted on, what follows ? war ; 
Your own work marr'd : for this your i 

Academe, 
Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and( 

pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer.' ' Let the Princess 

judge 
Of that ' she said : ' farewell, Sir — and 

to you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go.' 

'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I re- 

join'd, 
' The fifth in line from that old Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow ; 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he 

fell. 
And all else fled? we point to it, and 

we say. 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold. 
But branches current yet in kindred 

veins.' 
' Are you that Psyche,' Florian added ; 

' she 
With whom I sang about the morning 

hills. 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the 

purple fly, 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



177 



And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are 

you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing 

brow, 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming 

draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? are 

you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one ? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you 

now?' 
' You are that Psyche,' Cyril said, ' for 

whom 
I would be that for ever which I seem. 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, 
And glean your scatter'd sapience,' 

Then once more, 
'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I began, 
' That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the 

king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that 

ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern 

hills ; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them ? look ! for such are these 

and I.' 
*Are you that Psyche,' Florian ask'd, 

* to whom. 

In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 

Came flying while you sat beside the well ? 

he creature laid his muzzle on your lap, 

d sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, and 

the blood 
as sprinkled on your kirtle, and you 

wept, 
t was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet 

you wept, 
by the bright head of my little niece, 
ou were that Psyche, and what are 

you now ? ' 
^You are that Psyche,' Cyril said again, 
' The mother of the sweetest little maid, 
P^hat ever crow'd for kisses.' 

' Out upon it ! ' 
he answer'd, ' peace ! and why should 

I not play 

T 



The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him you call great : he for the common 

weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need 

were. 
Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on 

whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half this world, be swerved from right 

to save 
A prince, a brother ? a little will I yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and well for 

you. 
O hard, when love and duty clash ! I fear 
My conscience will not count me fleck- 
less ; yet — 
Hear my conditions : promise (otherwise 
You perish) as you came, to slip away 
To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be 

said, 
These women were too barbarous, would 

not learn ; 
They fled, who might have shamed us : 

promise, all.' 

Wliat could we else, we promised each ; 

and she, 
Like some wild creature newly -caged, 

commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling faintly 

said : 
' I knew you at the first : tho' you have 

grown 
You scarce have alter'd : I am sad and 

glad 
To see you, Florian. /give thee to death 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well ? ' 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossom'd 

up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the 

hearth, 

N 



178 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall : and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a 

voice, 
' I brought a message here from Lady 

Blanche.' 
Back started she, and turning round we 

saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she 

stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's colour) with her lips apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within her 

eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at the 

door. 
Then Lady Psyche, ' Ah — Melissa — you ! 
You heard us ? ' and Melissa, ' O pardon 

me 
I heard, I could not help it, did not 

wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not. 
Nor think I bear that heart within my 

breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death. ' 
' I trust you,' said the other, 'for we two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm 

and vine : 
But yet your mother's jealous tempera- 
ment — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, 

or prove 
The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honour, these their lives. ' ' Ah, fear 

me not ' 
Replied Melissa ; ' no — I would not tell. 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 
No, not to answer, Madam, all those 

hard things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon.' 
' Be it so ' the other, * that we still may 

lead 
The new light up, and culminate in peace. 
For Solomon may come to Sheba yet.' 



Said Cyril, ' Madam, he the wisest man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 
Of Lebanonian cedar : nor should you 
(Tho', Madam, yoti should answer, we 

would ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you came 
Among us, debtors for our lives to you. 
Myself for something more.' He said 

not what. 
But 'Thanks,' sheanswer'd 'Go: we have 

been too long 
Together : keep your hoods about the 

face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; and 

hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be 

well.' 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the 

child, 
And held her round the knees against his 

waist. 
And blew the swoll'n cheek of atrumpeter, 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and 

the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face and' 

laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we stroll'd 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, 

we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture 

slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration : follow'd 

then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five-words 

long 
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all 

Time 
Sparkle for ever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 
The total chronicles of man, the mind. 
The morals, something of the frame, the 

rock. 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



m 



The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the 

flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
And whatsoever can be taught and 

known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken 

fence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep in 

corn. 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and 

I spoke : 
' Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as 

we.' 
' They hunt old trails ' said Cyril ' very 

well ; 
But when did woman ever yet invent ? ' 
* Ungracious ! ' answer'd Florian ; ' have 

you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you that 

talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and almost 

sad? ' 
' O trash ' he said, ' but with a kernel in 

it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made me 

wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her in a 

flash. 
Than if my brainpan were an empty hull, 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, 
And round these halls a thousand baby 

loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the 

hearts, 
\Vhcnce follows many a vacant pang ; 

but O 
With me, Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy, 
The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, 
Tlie long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche 

too ; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and 

now 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I chase 
The substance or the shadow? will it 

hold? 
I have no sorcerer's maUson on me, 
No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 
' Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see it. Well, 



Are castles shadows ? Three of them ? 

Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If not, 
Shall those three castles patch my tatter'd 

coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my 

wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth, 
And much I might have said, but that 

my zone 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors ! O to 

hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane : 

but thou. 
Modulate me. Soul of mincing mimicry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, rny 

throat ; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star -sisters answering under crescent 

brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, 

and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek. 
Where they like swallows coming out of 

time 
Will wonder why they came : but hark 

the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! ' 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to 

end 
With beauties every shade of brown and 

fair 
In colours gayer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of 

flowers. 
How might a man not wander from his 

wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept 

mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, 
The second -sight of some Astrcean age, 
Sat compass'd with professors : they, the 

while, 



i8o 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro : 
A clamour thicken'd, mixt with inmost 

terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, 
With all her autumn tresses falsely brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : 

there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down 

with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some 

hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter : others lay about the 

lawns. 
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that their 

May 
Was passing : what was learning unto 

them ? 
They wish'd to marry ; they could rule a 

house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often 

came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity. 
That harm'd not : then day droopt ; the 

chapel bells 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt 

with those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, 
Before two streams of light from wall to 

wall. 
While the great organ almost burst his 

pipes. 
Groaning for power, and rolHng thro' the 

court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies. 
The work of Ida, to call down from 

Heaven 
A blessing on her labours for the world. 



Ill 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest. 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Morn in the white wake of the morning 

star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with 

care 
Descended to the court that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 

touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native East. 

There while we stood beside the fount, 

and watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, 

approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of 

sleep. 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy 

eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
' And fly,' she cried, ' O fly, while yet 

you may ! 
My mother knows : ' and when I ask'd 

her ' how,' 
' My fault ' she wept ' my fault ! and yet 

not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon 

me. 
My mother, 'tis her wont from night to 

night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been 

the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms; 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



i8i 



And so it was agreed when first they 

came ; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now, 
And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all the 

love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass you : 
Her countrywomen ! she did not envy 

her. 
" Who ever saw such wild barbarians? 
Girls? — more like men!" and at these 

words the snake. 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast ; 
And oh. Sirs, could I help it, but my 

cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx 

eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she 

laugh'd : 
*' O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 
Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they had 

been men 
You need not set your thoughts in rubric 

thus 
For wholesale comment." Pardon, I am 

shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful: "men" 

(for still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
"And so they are, — very like men in- 
deed — 
And with that woman closeted for hours ! " 
Then came these dreadful words out one 

by one, 
"Why — these — are — men :" Ishudder'd : 

"and you know it." 
" O ask me nothing," I said : "And she 

knows too. 
And she conceals it." So my mother 

clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word from 

me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to 

inform 
The Princess : Lady Psyche will be 

crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and therefore 

fly: 
But heal me with your pardon ere you go. ' 



' What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush?' 
Said Cyril : ' Pale one, blush again : than 

wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in 

Heaven ' 
He added, ' lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, "They mounted, Gany- 

medes. 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn." 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough : ' and he wentx 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and 

thought 
He scarce would prosper. ' Tell us,' 

Florian ask'd, 
' How grew this feud betwixt the right 

and left.' 
' O long ago,' she said, ' betwixt these 

two 
Division smoulders hidden ; 'tis my 

mother. 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool ; 
And still she rail'd against the state of 

things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth. 
And from the Queen's decease she brought 

her up. 
But when your sister came she won the 

heart 
Of Ida : they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inosculated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note ; 
One mind in all things : yet my mother 

still 
Afiirms your Psyche thieved her theories. 
And angled with them for her pupil's love : 
She calls her plagiarist ; I know not what : 
But I must go : I dare not tarry,' and 

light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian gazing after 
her, 
' An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 



l82 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLE V 



If I could love, why this were she : how 

pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd 

again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with 

erring pride. 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in 

tow.' 

* The crane,' I said, 'may chatter of 

the crane, 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My princess, O my princess ! true she errs, 
But in her own grand way : being herself 
Three times more noble than three score 

of men. 
She sees herself in every woman else. 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me : for her, and 

her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er she 

moves 
The Samian Here rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning 

Sun.' 

So saying from the court we paced, 

and gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the Northern 

front, 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank 

the gale 
That blown about the foliage underneath. 
And sated with the innumerable rose. 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning ' O hard task,' he 

cried ; 
' No fighting shadows here ! I forced a 

way 
Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and gnarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and 

thump 
A league of street in summer solstice 

down. 
Than hammer at this reverend gentle- 
woman. 



I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found 

her there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
The green malignant light of coming 

storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well- 

oil'd, 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek I 

pray'd 
Concealment : she demanded who we 

were. 
And why we came? I fabled nothing fair, 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and 

eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance, 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the gate. 
And our three lives. True — we had 

limed ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take the 

chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might 

harm 
The woman's cause. " Not more than 

now," she said, 
" So puddled as it is with favouritism." 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might 

befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was " Leave me to deal with 

that." 
I spoke of war to come and many deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to speak, 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand years, 
I recommenced ; ' ' Decide not ere you 

pause. 
I find you here but in the second place, 
Some say the third — the authentic found- 
ress you. 
I offer boldly : we will seat you highest : 
Wink at our advent : help my prince to 

gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise 

you 
Some palace in our land, where you shall 

reign 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



183 



The head and heart of all our fair she- 
world, 

And your great name flow on with broad- 
ening time 

For ever." Well, she balanced this a 
little, 

And told me she would answer us to-day, 

Meantime be mute : thus much, nor more 
I gain'd.' 

He ceasing, came a message from the 

Head. 
' That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her ? we should find 

the land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder : ' then she pointed on to 

where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the 

vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' 
all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head. 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on 

one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he 

roU'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew 

near ; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure 
came 
: Upon me, the weird vision of our house : 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow show, 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy. 
Her college and her maidens, empty 
masks, 
: And I myself the shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet 
I felt 
' My heart beat thick with passion and 
I with awe ; 

I Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 
I Brake, as she smote me with the light of 
1 eyes 



That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
' O friend, we trust that you esteem'd us 

not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn ; 
Unwillingly we spake.' ' No — not to her,' 
I answer'd, ' but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seem'd the 

thing you say.' 
' Again ? ' she cried, ' are you ambassa- 

dresses 
From him to me .'' we give you, being 

strange, 
A license : speak, and let the topic die.' 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could 
have wish'd — 
' Our king expects — was there no pre- 
contract ? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seem 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but 

long'd 
To follow : surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n to 

death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair.' 

' Poor boy,' she said, ' can he not read 

— no books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games ? nor deals 

in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise ? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl ; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have 

been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt 

with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun to 

do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning 

here. 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man.' 



1 84 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



She paused, and added with a haughtier 

smile 
'And as to precontracts, we move, my 

friend, 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and 

thee, 

Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summon'd out 
She kept her state, and left the drunken 

king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the 
palms.' 

' Alas your Highness breathes full 
East,' I said, 
' On that which leans to you. I know 
the Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a 

work 
To assail this gray preeminence of man ! 
You grant me license ; might I use it ? 

think ; 
Ere half be done perchance your life may 

fail; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your 

plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your 

pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing : might I dread 

that you. 
With only Fame for spouse and your 

great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss. 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts 

her due. 
Love, children, happiness ? ' 

And she exclaim'd, 
' Peace, you young savage of the Northern 

wild ! 
What ! tho' your Prince's love were like 

a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? 
You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd 

to thus : 
Yet will we say for children, would they 

grew 
Like field -flowers everywhere ! we like 

them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell you, girl. 



Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot 

die ; 
They with the sun and moon renew their 

light 
For ever, blessing those that look on 

them. 
Children — that men may pluck them from 

our hearts, 
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err : nor would we work 

for fame ; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause 

of Great, 
Who learns the one pou sto whenceafter- 

hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor 

shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, we 

had been. 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand years, 
That we might see our own work out, 

and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone.' 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange Poet - princess with her 

grand 
Imaginations might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my 
thoughts : 

' No doubt we seem a kind of monster 

to you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up till 

this 
Cramp'd under worse than South -sea-isle 

taboo. 
Dwarfs of the gynseceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot 

guess 
How much their welfare is a passion to 

us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



185 



By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death. 
We were as prompt to spring against the 

pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it. 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties.' 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black 

blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook the 

woods. 
And danced the colour, and, below, stuck 

out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived 

and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile and 

said, 
*As these rude bones to us, are we to 

her 
That will be.' ' Dare we dream of that,' 

I ask'd, 
* Which wrought us, as the workman and 

his work. 
That practice betters?' ' How,' she cried, 

' you love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, 
A golden brooch : beneath an emerald 

plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to the 

life; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all. ' ' And yet ' 

I said 
' Methinks I have not found among them 

all 
One anatomic' 'Nay, we thought of 

that,' 
She answer'd, ' but it pleased us not : in 

truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids 

should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the 

living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of the 

grave. 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 



Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful 

jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter 

hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among us, 

learnt, 
For many weary moons before we came, 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, 

ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your question 

now. 
Which touches on the workman and his 

work. 
Let there be light and there was light : 

'tis so : 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once, 
The birth of light : but we that are not all, 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, 

now that. 
And live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the 

shadow, Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and 

mould 
The woman to the fuller day.' 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league 

beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, 

came 
On flowery levels underneath the crag. 
Full of all beauty. ' O how sweet ' I said 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask) 
' To linger here with one that loved us. ' 

' Yea,' 
She answer'd, ' or with fair philosophies 
That lift the fancy ; for indeed these fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns, 
Where paced the Demigods of old, and 

saw 
The soft white vapour streak the crowned 

towers 
Built to the Sun : ' then, turning to her 

maids, 
' Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward ; 



1 86 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Lay out the viands.' At the word, they 

raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she 

stood, 
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek, 
The woman-conqueror ; woman-conquer'd 

there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand 

hymns. 
And all the men mourn'd at his side : but 

we 
Set forth to cHmb ; then, climbing, Cyril 

kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the 

rocks. 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 
In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, 

we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chattering stony 

names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap 

and tuff. 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and fell, 

and all 
The rosy heights came out above the 

lawns. 

IV 

The splendour falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replj'ing : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



' There sinks the nebulous star we call 

the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound ' 
Said Ida ; * let us down and rest ; ' and 

we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled preci- 
pices, 
By every coppice- feather 'd chasm and 

cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where 

below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the 

tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd 

on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent her 

hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and 

dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down we 

sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and 

gold. 

Then she, ' Let some one sing to us : 

lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music : ' and a 

maid. 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and 

sang. 

' Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

' Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the daj's that are no more. 

' Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dj'ing ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering scjuare ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 



THE princess; a medley 



187 



' Dear as remember 'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and vi^ild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.' 

She ended with such passion that the 

tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring 

pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain 
Answer'd the Princess, ' If indeed there 

haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears 
' with wool 

And so pace by : but thine are fancies 

hatch' d 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old b^'gones 

be, 
While down the streams that float us each 
i and all 

To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs 

of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the 

waste 
[Becomes a cloud : for all things serve 
I their time 

[Toward that great year of equal mights 
I and rights, 

iNor would I fight with iron laws, in the 
j end 

[Found golden : let the past be past ; let 

be 
Their cancell'd Babels : tho' the rough 

kex break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard-blown 

goat 
(Hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree 

split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we 

hear 
!A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, 
' burns 

jAbove the unrisen morrow : ' then to me ; 
' Know you no song of your own land,' she 

said, 



' Not such as moans about the retrospect, 
But deals with the other distance and the 

hues 
Of promise ; not a death's-head at the 

wine.' 

Then I remember'd one myself had 
made. 

What time I watch'd the swallow wing- 
ing south 

From mine own land, part made long 
since, and part 

Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far 

As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

' O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

* O tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

' O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and 
light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill. 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

' O were I thou that she might take me in. 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

' Why lingereth she to clothe her hea.rt with love. 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

' O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

' O tell her, brief is life but love is long. 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

' O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her 

mine. 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with 

alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant ; for still 

my voice 
Rang false : but smiling ' Not for thee,' 

she said, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 



' O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 

Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, rather, 

maid, 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : and 

this 
A mere love- poem ! O for such, my friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us of 

the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves 

are men. 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness. 
And dress the victim to the offering up. 
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul ! I had a maid of honour once ; 
She wept her true eyes blind for such a 

one, 
A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 
I loved her. Peace be with her. She 

is dead. 
So they blaspheme the muse ! But great 

is song 
Used to great ends : ourself have often 

tried 
Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have 

dash'd 
The passion of the prophetess ; for song 
Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 
Of spirit than to junketing and love. 
Love is it ? Would this same mock-love, 

and this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter 

bats. 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth. 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, but living wills, and 

sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 

Enough ! 
But now to leaven play with profit, you, 
Know you no song, the true growth of 

your soil. 
That gives the manners of your country- 
women ? ' 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous 
head with eyes 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 



Then while I dragg'd my brains for such 

a song, I 

Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd glass I 

had wrought, j 

Or master'd by the sense of sport, began } 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences ■ 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at tj 

him, 
I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd 1 

and shook ; 
The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows ; 
' Forbear,' the Princess cried ; 'Forbear, . 

Sir ' I ; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath 

and love, 
I smote him on the breast ; he started 

up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 
Melissa clamour'd ' Flee the death ' ; ' To 

horse ' 
Said Ida ; ' home ! to horse ! ' and fled, 

as flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk, 
When some one batters at the dovecote- 
doors. 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, 
In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me : hoof by ; 

hoof. 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge ; and then another 

shriek, 
' The Head, the Head, the Princess, 

the Head ! ' 
For blind with rage she miss'd the plank, 

and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to 

gloom : 
There whirl'd her white robe like a 

blossom'd branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I gave. 
No more ; but woman-vested as I was 
Plunged ; and the flood drew ; yet I 

caught her ; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the 

world. 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree i 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



189 



Was half- disrooted from his place and 

stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling 

wave 
Mid -channel. Right on this we drove 

and caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I gain'd 
I the shore. 

! 

j There stood her maidens glimmeringly 
group'd 

I In the hollow bank. One reaching 

forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they cried 

' she lives ' : 
They bore her back into the tent : but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me 

wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes, 
' Nor found my friends ; but push'd alone 

on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian 

craft 
jThan beelike instinct hive ward, found at 
} length 

The garden portals. Two great statues, 

Art 
(And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
lA weight of emblem, and betwixt were 
\ valves 

Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
iHis rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the 

gates. 

A little space was left between the 

horns. 

Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top with 
) pain, 

Dropt on the sward, and up the linden 

walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from 

hue to hue, 
iNow poring on the glowworm, now the 
} star, 

II paced the terrace, till the Bear had 

wheel'd 
iThro' a great arc his seven slow suns. 



A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncertain 

gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt ' if this 

were she,' 
But it was Florian. ' Hist O hist,' he 

said, 
' They seek us : out so late is out of 

rules. 
Moreover ''seize the strangers" is the cry. 
How came you here ? ' I told him : ' I ' 

said he, 
' Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, 

return'd. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall. 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneath 
The head of Holofernes peep'd and saw. 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial : each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last of 

all, 
Melissa : trust me. Sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men, at 

first 
Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not : 
And then, demanded if her mother knew, 
Or Psyche, she affirm'd not, or denied : 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar 

with her. 
Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; she 

call'd 
For Psyche's child tocastitfromthe doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to 

face ; 
And I slipt out : but whither will you now ? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both are 

fled: 
What, if together ? that were not so well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the dark.' 

* And yet,' I said, 'you wrong him more 

than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the 

clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, still 

the clown. 



I90 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



To harm the thing that trusts him, and to 

shame 
That which he says he loves : for Cyril, 

howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the waterlily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is he.' 

Scarce had I ceased when from a 

tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

' Names ' : 
He, standing still, was clutch'd ; but I 

began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; 

behind 
I heard the pufiPd pursuer ; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and 

known. 

They haled us to the Princess where 

she sat 
High in the hall : above her droop'd a 

lamp. 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast- 
head. 
Prophet of storm ; a handmaid on each 

side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long 

black hair 
Damp from the river ; and close behind 

her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger 

than men. 
Huge women blowzed with health, and 

wind, and rain. 



And labour. Each was like a Druid rock ; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and wail'd about 
with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing 

clove 
An advent to the throne : and therebeside. 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from 

wrong. 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her 

sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

' It was not thus, O Princess, in old 

days : 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my 

lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me 
Your second mother : those were gracious 

times. 
Then came your new friend : you began 

to change — 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and to 

cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all to 

her. 
To meyou froze : this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of my own deserts. 
And partly that you were my civil head. 
And chiefly you were born for something 

great. 
In which I might your fellow-worker be, 
When time should serve ; and thus a noble 

scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since had 

sown ; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd. 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 
We took this palace ; but even from the 

first 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



191 



You stood in your own light and darken'd 

mine. 
WTiat student came but that you planed 

her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in all? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine 

were lean; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be known : 
Then came these wolves : they knew her : 

they endured, 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn. 
To tell her what they were, and she to 

hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye like 

mine 
A lidless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my 

foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I fear'd 
To meet a cold " We thank you, we shall 

hear of it 
From Lady Psyche : " you had gone to 

her, 
She told, perforce ; and winning easy grace. 
No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd 

among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, the 

stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my 

honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant haste 
To push my rival out of place and power. 
'But public use required she should be 

known ; 
'And since my oath was ta'en for public 

use, 
' I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watch'd them 

well, 
(Saw that they kept apart, no mischief 

done ; 
And yet this day (tho' you should hate 

me for it) 
. I came to tell you ; found that you ho d 
I _ gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, I 

thought, 
• That surely she will speak ; if not, then I : 



Did she ? These monsters blazon'd what 

they were, 
According to the coarseness of their kind, 
For thus I hear ; and known at last (my 

work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, she 

flies; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your 

rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, 

and time. 
And talent, I — you know it — I will not 

boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan. 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can 

tread.' 

She ceased : the Princess answer'd 

coldly, ' Good : 
Your oath is broken : we dismiss you : go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the 

child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to our- 

self.' 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture 

throat. 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard 

smile. 
' The plan was mine. I built the nest ' 

she said 
' To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! ' and stoop'd 

to updrag 
MeHssa : she, half on her mother propt. 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her face, 

and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer. 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out. 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; and 

while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 



192 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, 

and wing'd 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell 
Delivering seal'd dispatches which the 

Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrath- 
ful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the 

rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 

heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now her 

breast. 
Beaten with some great passion at her 

heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she held 
Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she 

crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who should 

say 
* Read,' and I read — two letters — one her 

sire's. 

' Fair daughter, when we sent the 

Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which 

learnt. 
We, conscious of what temper you are 

built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong ; but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you, 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son. ' 

The second was my father's running 

thus : 
' You have our son : touch not a hair of 

his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him your 

hand : 



Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed we 

hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their 

Lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might well j 

deserve 
That we this night should pluck your 

palace down ; 
And we will do it, unless you send us back ; 
Our son, on the instant, whole.' 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

' O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be : hear me, for I bear. 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your 

wrongs. 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a 

life 
Less mine than yours : my nurse would 

tell me of you ; 
I Ijabbled for you, as babies for the moon, 
Vague brightness; whenaboy, youstoop'd 

to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost 

south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve and 

dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wildswan in among the stars . 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of 

glowworm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had 

you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the en- 
throned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full 

tongue, 
O noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



193 



On you, their centre : let me say but this, 
That many a famous man and woman, 

town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 
The dwarfs of presage : tho' when known, 

there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in you 

I found 
jMy boyish dream involved and dazzled 

down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty 

makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to 

hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 
I cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you 

more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; dying 

lips, 
With many thousand matters left to do. 
The breath of life ; O more than poor 

men wealth, 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, not 

mine — but half 
Without you ; with you, whole ; and of 

those halves 
You worthiest ; and howe'er you block 

and bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I 
! hold 

iThat it becomes no man to nurse despair. 
But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
V^et that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter.' 

On one knee 
[vneeling, I gave it, which she caught, 

and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
invective seem'd to wait behind her lips, 
\s waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world with 

foam : 
Vnd so she would have spoken, but there 

rose 
V hubbub in the court of half the maids 
aather'd together : from the illumined hall 
T 



Long lanes of splendour slanted o'er a 

press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded 

ewes. 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gem- 
like eyes. 
And gold and golden heads ; they to and 

fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, 

some pale, 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light. 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land, 
And some that men were in the very 

walls. 
And some they cared not ; till a clamour 

grew 
As of a new- world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse-confounded : high above them 

stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : but 

rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, 

so 
To the open window moved, remaining 

there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the 

light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd 

her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

'What fear ye, brawlers? am not I 

your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : 

/dare 
All these male thunderbolts : what is it 

ye fear ? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us and 

they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights. 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war. 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause. 
Die : yet I blame you not so much for 

fear : 



194 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Six thousand years of fear have made you 


Then men had said — but now — What 


that 


hinders me 


From which I would redeem you : but 


To take such bloody vengeance on you 


for those 


both ?— 


That stir this hubbub — you and you — I 


Yet since our father — Wasps in our good 


know 


hive. 


Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow 


You would-be quenchers of the light to 


morn 


be. 


We hold a great convention : then shall 


Barbarians, grosser than your native 


they 


bears — 


That love their voices more than duty, 


would I had his sceptre for one hour ! 


learn 


You that have dared to break our bound, 


With whom they deal, dismiss'd in shame 


and gull'd 


to live 


Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 


No wiser than their mothers, household 


thwarted us — 


stuff, 


/ wed with thee ! / bound by precontract 


Live chattels, mincers of each other's 


Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' all 


fame, 


the gold 


Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown. 


That veins the world were pack'd to 


The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks 


make your crown. 


of Time, 


And every spoken tongue should lord 


Whose brains are in their hands and in 


you. Sir, 


their heels, 


Your falsehood and yourself are hateful 


But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 


to us : 


thrum. 


I trample on your offers and on you : 


To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to 


Begone : we will not look upon you more. 


scour, 


Here, push them out at gates.' 


For ever slaves at home and fools abroad. ' 


In wrath she spake. 




Then those eight mighty daughters of the 


She, ending, waved her hands : thereat 


plough 


the crowd 


Bent their broad faces toward us and 


Muttering, dissolved : then with a smile, 


address'd 


that look'd 


Their motion : twice I sought to plead 


A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff. 


my cause. 


Wlien all the glens are drown'd in azure 


But on my shoulder hung their heavy 


gloom 


hands. 


Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and 


The weight of destiny : so from her face 


said : 


They push'd us, down the steps, and 




thro' the court. 


*You have done well and like a 


And with grim laughter thrust us out at 


gentleman. 


gates. 


And like a prince : you have our thanks 




for all : 


We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty 


And you look well too in your woman's 


mound 


dress : 


Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and 


Well have you done and like a gentleman. 


heard 


You saved our life : we owe you bitter 


The voices murmuring. While I listen'd, 


thanks : 


came 


Better have died and spilt our hones in 


On a sudden the weird seizure and the 


the flood — 


doubt : 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



195 



I seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous woman- 
guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic 

night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off ; for spite of 

doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but 

came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway 

sun 
Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang : we thought her half- 
possess'd, 

She struck such warbling fury thro' the 
words ; 

And, after, feigning pique at what she 
call'd 

The raillery, or grotesque, or false sub- 
lime — 

Like one that wishes at a dance to change 

The music — clapt her hands and cried 
for war. 

Or some grand fight to kill and make an 

i end : 

iAnd he that next inherited the tale 

Half turning to the broken statue, said, 

;* Sir Ralph has got your colours : if I 

j prove 

iYour knight, and fight your battle, what 
for me ? ' 



It chanced, her empty glove upon the 

tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. ' Fight ' 

she said, 
' And make us all we would be, great 

and good.' 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall, 
Arranged the favour, and assumed the 

Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured from 

the mound. 
We stumbled on a stationary voice, 
And ' Stand, who goes ? ' ' Two from the 

palace ' L 
' The second two : they wait,' he said, 

' pass on ; 
His Highness wakes : ' and one, that 

clash'd in arms. 
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas 

led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign 

shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd 

to hear. 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind 

wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies. 
Each hissing in his neighbour's ear ; and 

then 
A strangled titter, out of which there 

brake 
On all sides, clamouring etiquette to 

death. 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two 

old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh young captains fiash'd their 

glittering teeth, 
The huge bush -bearded Barons heaved 

and blew. 
And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded 

Squire. 



196 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



At length my Sire, his rough cheek 


He show'd a tent 


wet with tears, 


A stone-shot off : we enter'd in, and there 


Panted from weary sides ' King, you are 


Among piled arms and rough accoutre- 


free! 


ments. 


We did but keep you surety for our son, 


Pitiful sight, wrapp'd in a soldier's cloak. 


If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 


Like some sweet sculpture draped from 


thou. 


head to foot, 


That tends her bristled grunters in the 


And push'd by rude hands from its 


sludge : ' 


pedestal. 


For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn 


All her fair length upon the ground she 


with briers, 


lay: 


More crumpled than a poppy from the 


And at her head a follower of the camp. 


sheath, 


A charr'd and wrinkled piece of woman- 


And all one rag, disprinced from head to 


hood. 


heel. 


Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 


Then some one sent beneath his vaulted 




palm 


Then Florian knelt, and ' Come ' he 


A whisper'd jest to some one near him, 


whisper'd to her. 


' Look, 


' Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie not 


He has been among his shadows, ' ' Satan 


thus. 


take 


What have you done but right ? you could 


The old women and their shadows ! (thus 


not slay 


the King 


Me, nor your prince : look up : be com- 


Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight with 


forted : 


men. 


Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, 


Go: Cyril told us all.' 


^Vhen fall'n in darker ways.' And like- 


As boys that slink 


wise I : 


From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye, 


' Be comforted : have I not lost her too, 


Away we stole, and transient in a trice 


In whose least act abides the nameless 


From what was left of faded woman - 


charm 


slough 


That none has else for me ? ' She heard, 


To sheathing splendours and the golden 


she moved. 


scale 


She moan'd, a folded voice ; and up she 


Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 


sat, 


Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the 


And raised the cloak from brows as pale 


Earth, 


and smooth 


And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril. 


As those that mourn half-shrouded over 


met us. 


death 


A little shy at first, but by and by 


In deathless marble. ' Her,' she said. 


We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and 


' my friend — 


given 


Parted from her — betray'd her cause and 


For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, 


mine — 


whereon 


Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye not 


Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away 


your faith ? 


Thro' the dark land, and later in the night 


base and bad ! what comfort? none 


Had come on Psyche weeping : ' then we 


for me ! ' 


fell 


To whom remorseful Cyril, 'Yet I pray 


Into your father's hand, and there she 


Take comfort : live, dear lady, for your 


lies, 


child ! ' 


But will not speak, nor stir.' 


At which she lifted up her voice and cried. 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



197 



' Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my 

child. 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no 

more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of care. 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
The child is hers — for every little fault. 
The child is hers ; and they will beat my 

girl 
Remembering her mother : O my flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make her 

hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than 

were she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there. 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they 

made, 
The horror of the shame among them all : 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and day. 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing for ever, till they open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet, 
]My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child : 
And I will take her up and go my way. 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 
.Ah ! what might that man not deserve 

of me 
;Who gave me back my child?' 'Be 
i comforted,' 

iSaid Cyril, ' you shall have it :' but again 
(She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, 

and so 
Like tender things that being caught feign 

death, 
i Spoke not, nor stirr'd, 
I By this a murmur ran 

jThro' all the camp and inv/ard raced the 
I scouts 

With rumour of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
,We left her by the woman, and without 
[Found the gray kings at parle : and ' Look 
I you ' cried 

•My father ' that our compact be fulfill'd : 
jYou have spoilt this child ; she laughs at 
; you and man : 

She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and 

him : 



But red-faced war has rods of steel and 

fire ; 
She yields, or war.' 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
'We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy 

time 
With our strange girl : and yet they say 

that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your mind 

at large : 
How say you, war or not ? ' 

' Not war, if possible, 

king,' I said, 'lest from the abuse of 

war, 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year. 
The smouldering homestead, and the 

household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common 

wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her 
Three times a monster : now she lightens 

scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then 

would hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, 
And every face she look'd on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this 

knot, 
By gentleness than war. I want her love. 
What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults, 
She would not love ; — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave. 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 
Not ever would she love ; but brooding 

turn 
The book of scorn, till all my flitting 

chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs. 
And crush'd to death : and rather. Sire, 

than this 

1 would the old God of war himself were 

dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills. 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of 

wreck. 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk d in 

ice, 
Not to be molten out.' 



198 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



And roughly spake 
My father, ' Tut, you know them not, the 

girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, 

Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the 

chase. 
We hunt them for the beauty of their 

skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them 

down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! Out ! 

for shame ! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to 

them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do. 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, 

comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, 

and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the 

score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' dash'd 

with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife, 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — 

gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net. 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it.' 

' Yea but Sire,' I cried, 
'Wild natures need wise curbs. The 

soldier ? No : 
What dares not Ida do that she should 

prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when she rose 
The yesternight, and storming in extremes, 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 

down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the 

death. 
No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, king, 
True woman : but you clash them all in 

one, 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 



As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, 

one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, one 

that. 
And some unworthily ; their sinless faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty. 
Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence they 

need 
More breadth of culture : is not Ida right? 
They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 
Severer in the logic of a life ? 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom 

you speak, { 

My mother, looks as whole as some serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a 

touch. 
But pure as lines of green that streak the 

white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I say, 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man. 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual 

mire. 
But whole and one : and take them all- 
in-all, 
Were we ourselves but half asgood, askind, 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly 

theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point : not 

war : 
Lest I lose all.' 

' Nay, nay, you spake but sense ' 
Said Gama. ' We remember love ourself 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate him 

then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you say : 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for 

it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the rest, 
Our own detention, why, the causes 

weigh'd. 
Fatherly fears — you used us courteously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land, 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



199 



You did but come as goblins in the night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman's 

head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the 

milking-maid. 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of 

cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word upon it, 
; He comes back safe) ride with us to our 

lines, 
, And speak with Arac : Arac's word is thrice 
; As ours with Ida : something may be 

done — 
] I know not what — and ours shall see us 
; friends. 

You, likewise, our late guests, if so you 
will, 

■ Follow us : who knows ? we four may 
I build some plan 

1! Foursquare to opposition.' 

Here he reach'd 
!( White hands of farewell to my sire, who 
\ growl'd 

; An answer which, half- muffled in his 
\ beard, 

Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king across 

the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of 

Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and 

woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised help, 

and oozed 
i All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode 
And blossom - fragrant slipt the heavy 

dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each 

light air 
On our mail'd heads : but other thoughts 

than Peace 

■ Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled 

squares, 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling 

the flowers 
I With clamour : for among them rose a cry 
j As if to greet the king; they made a halt ; 



The horses yell'd ; they clash'd their arms ; 

the drum 
Beat ; merrily-blowing shrill'd the martial 

fife; 
And in the blast and bray of the long 

horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly 

pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and the 

highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, made 

them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Giant's 

zone. 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark ; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, as 

they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first I 
heard 
War -music, felt the blind wildbeast of 

force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man, 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the king 
His three broad sons ; with now a wander- 
ing hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A common light of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy 

jest 
Had labour'd down within his ample lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 
words. 

' Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he 
himself 

Your captive, yet my father wills not war : 

And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, war 
or no? 

But then this question of your troth re- 
mains : 

And there's a downright honest meaning 
in her : 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



She flies too high, she flies too high ! and 

yet 
She ask'd but space and fairplay for her 

scheme ; 
She prest and prest it on me— I myself, 
What know I of these things ? but, Hfe 

and soul ! 
I thought her half- right talking of her 

wrongs ; 
f say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what of 

that? 
I take her for the flower of womankind. 
And so I often told her, right or wrong, 
And Prince, she can be sweet to those 

she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not : this is 

all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me 

swear it — ■ 
'Sdeath — and with solemn rites by candle- 
light- 
Swear by St. something — I forget her 

name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men ; 
She was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive 

your claim : 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at 

once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my father's 

will.' 

I lagg'd in answer loth to render up 
My precontract, and loth by brainless war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper 

yet ; 
Till one of those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip. 
To prick us on to combat ' Like to like ! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's 

heart. ' 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like a 

blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter-scoff. 
And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon the 

point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their 

shame, 
* Decide it here : why not ? we are three 

to three.' 



Then spake the third ' But three to 
three ? no more ? 

No more, and in our noble sister's cause ? 

More, more, for honour : every captain 
waits 

Hungry for honour, angry for his king. 

More, more, some fifty on a side, that each 

May breathe himself, and quick ! by over- 
throw 

Of these or those, the question settled die.' 

'Yea,' answer'd I, 'for this wild wreath 

of air. 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honour, if ye 

will. 
It needs must be for honour if at all : 
Since, what decision ? if we fail, we fail, 
And if we win, we fail : she would not 

keep 
Her compact.' "Sdeath! but we will 

send to her,' 
Said Arac, 'worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue : let our- missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the 

word.' 

' Boys ! ' shriek'd the old king, but 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for 

none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more to 

say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and 

found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim, 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life : three times 

he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none 

appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : 

the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd him 

thence : 
The third, and those eight daughters of 

the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught 

his hair. 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



20 1 



And so belabour'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild : not less one glance 

he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the 

noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and right 

and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the long 

hills roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale : and yet 

her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I was 

pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he 

clash' d 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads : 
:But overborne -by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, 

perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce 

demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in heat, 
^Vnd sware to combat for my claim till 

death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden- wall : and likewise 

here, 
Al )Ovethe garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A column'd entry shone and marble stairs, 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd with 

Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
: But now fast barr'd : so here upon the flat 
; All that long morn the lists were hammer'd 

[And all that morn the heralds to and fro, 
;With message and defiance, went and 

came ; 
I Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand, 
But shaken here and there, and rolling 
I words 

[. Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 



' O brother, you have known the pangs 

we felt, 
Wliat heats of indignation when we heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's 

feet; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor 

bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a 

scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Wliere smoulder their dead despots ; and 

of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running flood, 

and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 
With smoother men : the old leaven 

leaven'd all : 
Millions of throats would bawl for civil 

rights, 
No woman named : therefore I set my 

face 
Against all men, and lived but for mine 

own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for them : 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 
I fenced it round with gallant institutes. 
And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey 
And prosper'd ; till a rout of saucy boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd 

our peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, l)lustering I know 

not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings ! — for 

their sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame 

these ? 
Or you ? or I ? for since you think me 

touch'd 
In honour — what, I would not aught of 

false — 
Is not our cause pure? and whereas I 

know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's 

blood 
You draw from, fight ; you failing, I abide 



202 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



What end soever : fail you will not. Still 
Take not his life : he risk'd it for my own ; 
His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you do, 
Fight and fight well ; strike and strike 

home. O dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, 

you 
The sole men to be mingled with our 

cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the after- 
time. 
Your very armour hallow'd, and your 

statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when, this gad-fly brush'd 

aside. 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to move 
With claim on claim from right to right, 

till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, 

know herself; 
And Knowledge in our own land make 

her free, 
And, ever following those two crowned 

twins, 
Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery 

grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern 

morn.' 

Then came a postscript dash'd across 

the rest. 
* See that there be no traitors in your 

camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt-plague 

of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their 

homes, 
Than thus man-girdled here : indeed I 

think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother ; which she left : 
She shall not have it back : the child 

shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning : there the tender orphan 

hands 



Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm 

from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world : 

farewell.' 

I ceased ; he said, ' Stubborn, but she 
may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder- 
storms, 
And breed up warriors ! See now, tho' 

yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spind- 
ling king. 
This Gama swamp' d in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the woman 
takes it up. 

And topples down the scales ; but this is 
fixt 

As are the roots of earth and base of all ; 

Man for the field and woman for the 
hearth : 

Man for the sword and for the needle she : 

Man with the head and woman with the 
heart : 

Man to command and woman to obey ; 

All else confusion. Look you ! the gray 
mare 

Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 

From tile to scullery, and her small good- 
man 

Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires 
of Hell 

Mix with his hearth : but you — she's yet 
a colt — 

Take, break her : strongly groom'd and 
straitly curb'd 

She might not rank with those detestable 

That let the bantling scald at home, and 
brawl 

Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in 
the street. 

They say she's comely ; there's the fairer 
chance : 

/ like her none the less for rating at her ! 

Besides, the woman wed is not as we. 

But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace 

Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 

The bearing and the training of a child 

Is woman's wisdom.' 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



203 



Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause ' take not his life' : 
I mused on that wild morning in the 

woods, 
And on the ' Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win ' : 
I thought on all the wrathful king had 

said, 
And how the strange betrothment was to 

end : 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcerer's 

curse 
That one should fight with shadows and 

should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection came : 
King, camp and college turn'd to hollow 

shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream : 
And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied and 

plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 
The trumpet, and again : at which the 

storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of 

spears 
And riders front to front, until they closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering 

points, 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, I 

dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose the 

steed. 
And into fiery splinters leapt the lance. 
And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 
Part sat like rocks : part reel'd but kept 

their seats : 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose again 

and drew : 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering 

horses. Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, and 

down 



From Arac's arm, as from a giant's fiail. 
The large blows rain'd, as here and every- 
where 
He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing 

lists, 
And all the plain, — brand, mace, and 

shaft, and shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron -clanging anvil 

bang'd 
With hammers ; till I thought, can this 

be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins ? if this be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in my 

dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' 

eyes, 
And highest, among the statues, statue- 

Hke, 
Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 
A single band of gold about her hair. 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but 

she 
No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me 

fight, 
Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a 

Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my 

dream 
All that I would. But that large-moulded 

man. 
His visage all agrin as at a wake, 
Made at me thro' the press, and, stagger- 
ing back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and 

horseman, came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the 

drains. 
And shadowing down the champaign till 

it strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits. 
And twists the grain with such a roar 

that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for every- 
thing 



204 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Gave way before him : only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own right 

eye, 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him 

down : 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the 

Prince, 
With Psyche's colour round his helmet, 

tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew -corded, apt at 

arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that 

smote 
And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt 

my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment hand 

to hand. 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse 

we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade 

glanced, 
I did but shear a feather, and dream and 

truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; 

and I fell 



Home they brought her warrior dead 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
' She must weep or she will die.' 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightlj' to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety j^ears, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears- 
' Sweet my child, I live for thee.' 



My 



died 



lived 



dream had never 
again. 

As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 



For so it seem'd, or so they said to me, 
That all things grew more tragic and 

more strange ; 
That when our side was vanquish'd and 

my cause 
For ever lost, there went up a great cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard 

and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my 

casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglai'a. a 

But high upon the palace Ida stood ^ 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on the 

roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she 

sang. 

' Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the seed, 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and gi-own a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 

' Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 
came ; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears : they 

heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall, 
And would have strown it, and are fall'n them- 
selves. 

' Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 
came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it faggots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

' Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 

struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor 

knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade. 

' Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power : and roll'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



205 



*And now, O maids, behold our 

sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, 

whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and won it with a 

day 
Bhmch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast, 
When dames and heroines of the golden 

year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but 

come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are 

won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with coarse 

mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, that 

there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender 

ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality.' 

She spoke, and with the babe, yet in 

her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, 

and led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on 

they came, 
I Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : by 

them went 
The enamour'd air sighing, and on their 

curls 
From the high tree the blossom wavering 

fell. 
And over them the tremulous isles of light 
Slided, they moving under shade : but 

Blanche 
At distance follow'd : so they came : anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the 

herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy does. 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, 
.The lovely, lordly creature floated on 



To where her wounded brethren lay ; 
there stay'd ; 

Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, — 
and prest 

Their hands, and call'd them dear de- 
liverers. 

And happy warriors, and immortal names. 

And said ' You shall not lie in the tents 
but here, 

And nursed by those for whom you fought, 
and served 

With female hands and hospitality.' 

Then, whether moved by this, or was 

it chance. 
She past my way. Up started from my 

side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless 

eye. 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly 

pale. 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when 

she saw 
The haggard father's face and reverend 

beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own son, shudder 'd, a twitch of pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead 

past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and she 

said : 
' He saved my life : my brother slew him 

for it.' 
No more : at which the king in bitter 

scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and the 

tress. 
And held them up : she saw them, and a 

day 
Rose from the distance on her memory, 
When the good Queen, her mother, shore 

the tress 
W^ith kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche : 
And then once more she look'd at my pale 

face : 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 
Her iron will was broken in her mind; 
Her noble heart was molten in her breast ; 



2o6 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 



She bow'd, she set the child on the earth ; 

she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and 

presently 
'O Sire,' she said, 'he lives: he is not 

dead : 
O let me have him with my brethren here 
In our own palace : we will tend on him 
Like one of these ; if so, by any means, 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, that 

make 
Our progress falter to the woman's goal.' 

She said : but at the happy word ' he 

lives ' 
My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and evening 

mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever 

stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden 

brede. 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to 

dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent 

arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamouring out ' Mine — 

mine — not yours. 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the 

child ' 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the 

cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd. 
And turn'd each face her way : wan was 

her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle 

torn. 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her e3'e, 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and 

half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she nor 

cared 



Nor knew it, clamouring on, tilllda heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, 

stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he that 

lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee : then he 

drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she 

look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying as it 

seem'd. 
Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his 

face. 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er 

him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he 

said : 

' O fair and strong and terrible ! 

Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's 

mane ! 
But Lo.ve and Nature, these are two more 

terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our 

necks. 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your 

will. 
What would you more? give her the 

child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead. 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and 

beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love 

of these. 
The common hate with the revolving 

wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great 

Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd* future, crown'd 

with fire, 
And tread you out for ever : but how- 

soe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her, 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



207 



Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you 

loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled 

you, 
Or own one port of sense not flint to 

prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to 

lay it, 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with 

yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one 

fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could not 
I kill, 

sGive vie it : / will give it her.' 
! He said : 

i At first her eye with slow dilation roll'd 
; Dry flame, she listening ; after sank and 
i sank 

JAnd, into mournful twilight mellowing, 
i dwelt 

JFull on the child ; she took it : ' Pretty 
; bud! 

i Lily of the vale ! half open'd bell of the 

woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a 

world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system 

made 
No purple in the distance, mystery, 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell ; 
.These men are hard upon us as of old. 
We two must part : and yet how fain 

was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, 

to think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren 

breast 
In ihe dead prime : but may thy mother 

prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to me ! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, 

I wish it 
Gentle as freedom ' — here she kiss'd it : 

then — 
'All good go with thee! take it Sir,' 
K and <io 

Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands. 



Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she 

sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in 

thanks ; 
Then felt it sound and whole from head 

to foot, 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close 

enough. 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled 

it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppliantly : 

* We two were friends : I go to mine 

own land 
For ever : find some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : yet 

speak to me. 
Say one soft word and let me part for- 
given. ' 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. ' Ida — 'sdeath ! you blame 

the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is so 

hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me ! 
I am your warrior : I and mine have fought 
Your battle : kiss her ; take her hand, 

she weeps : 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice o'er 

than see it.' 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground, 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin. 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama 
said : 

* I've heard that there is iron in the 

blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word ? not one ? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? not 

from me. 
Not from your mother, now a saint with 

saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her 

say it — 
"Our Ida has a heart " — just ere she died — 
*' But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still " and I — I sought for 

one — 



208 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! Not 

one word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how you 

stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good 

knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death, 
For your wild whim : and was it then 

for this, 
Was it for this we gave our palace up, 
Where we withdrew from summer heats 

and state. 
And had our wine and chess beneath the 

planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her that's 

gone, 
Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it kind ? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of 

whom, 
When first she came, all flush'd you said 

to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own 

age, 
Now could you share your thought ; now 

should men see 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk'd 

with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, up 

in the tower. 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth. 
And right ascension. Heaven knows what ; 

and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word, 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, 

flint! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay. 
You shame your mother's judgment too. 

Not one ? 
You will not ? well — no heart have you, 

or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitterness.' 
So said the small king moved beyond his 

wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her 
force 
By many a varying influence and so long. 



Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor 

wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded 

moon 
In a still water : then brake out my sire, 
Lifting his grim head from my wounds. 

* O you, 
Woman, whom we thought woman even 

now. 
And were half fool'd to let you tend our son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — but we 

see 
The accomplice of your madness unfor- 

given. 
And think that you might mix his draught 

with death, 
When your skies change again : the 

rougher hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the 

Prince.' 

He rose, and while each ear was prick'd 
to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd 

her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, 

and shone, 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 
' Come hither. 

Psyche,' she cried out, ' embrace me, 

come. 
Quick while I melt ; make reconcilement 

sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an 

hour : 
Come to the hollow heart they slander so! 
Kiss and be friends, like children being 

chid ! 
/ seem no more : / want forgiveness too : 

1 should have had to do with none but 

maids. 
That have no links with men. Ah false 

but dear, 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — 

why? — Yet see. 
Before these kings we embrace you yet 

once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



209 



And now, O sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon 

him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt to 

him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I 

know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours 

shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth : 
What use to keep them here — now? 

grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to the 

king: 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of 

that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags 

me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind. 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are.' 

Passionate tears 
Follow'd : the king replied not : Cyril 

said : 
'Your brother. Lady, — Florian, — ask for 

him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded 
' too — 

iThat you may tend upon him with the 

prince.' 
'Ay so,' said Ida with a bitter smile, 
• Our laws are broken : let him enter 

too.' 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful 

song, 
,\nd had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. ' Ay so,' she said, 
I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
,VIy heart an eddy from the brawling 
I hour : 

ATe break our laws with ease, but let it 

be.' 
Ay so ? ' said Blanche : ' Amazed am I 

to hear 
jTour Highness : but your Highness 

breaks with ease 
rhe law your Highness did not make : 

'twas L 



I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind, 
And block'd them out ; but these men 

came to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to win.' 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry eye : 
But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 
Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling 

tower, 
Rang ruin, answer'dfull of grief and scorn. 

' Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not 

one, but all. 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or 

foe. 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit, 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood by 

us. 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his 

base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting 

us too. 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with 

your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are gone. ' 

She turn'd ; the very nape of her white 

neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the 

Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father 

charm'd 
Her wounded soul with words : nor did 

mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, 

and bare 
Straight to the doors : to them the doors 

gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, 

and there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and 

each base. 
To left and right, of those tall columns 

drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers : at the further end 
P 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
Close by her, Hke supporters on a shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the centre 

stood 
The common men with rolling eyes ; 

amazed 
They glared upon the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, 

save 
When armour clash'd or jingled while 

the day. 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, and 

shot 
A flying splendour out of brass and steel, 
That o'er the statues leapt from head to 

head. 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm. 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on flame. 
And now and then an echo started up. 
And shuddering fled from room to room, 

and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, 

and thro' 
The long -laid galleries past a hundred 

doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, 

and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left me 

in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
Till happier times ; but some were left of 

those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside the 

walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything was 

changed. 



Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 

shape 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 



Ask me no more : what answer should I give? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye ; 

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are seal'd *. 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ,• 
Ask me no more. 

So was their sanctuary violated. 
So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 
At first with all confusion : by and by 
Sweet order lived again with other laws : 
A kindlier influence reign'd ; and every- 
where 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick : the maidens came, 

they talk'd. 
They sang, they read : till she not fair 

began 
To gather light, and she that was, became 
Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel 

offices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious act, 
And in their own clear element, they 
moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell. 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with 

shame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke : 

but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for 

hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field : void was her 

use. 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great 

black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of 

night. 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to 

shore, 
And suck the blinding splendour from the 

sand. 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by 

tarn 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLE Y 



Expunge the world : so fared she gazing 

there ; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, 

blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till down 

she came, 
And found fair peace once more among 

the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by 
morn the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, 

but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
' And twilight gloom'd ; and broader-grown 
• the bowers 

; Drew the great night into themselves, 

and Heaven, 
: Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
; Deeper than those weird doubts could 

reach me, lay 
' Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the 

hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in 
their sleep. 

[| But Psyche tended Florian : with her 
' oft, 

Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, but 

left 
Her child among us, willing she should 

keep 
Court-favour : here and there the small 

bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the 
' couch, 

:0r thro' the parted silks the tender face 
' Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded man 
'With blush and smile, a medicine in 
I themselves 

To wile the length from languorous hours, 

and draw 
jThe sting from pain ; nor seem'd it strange 
1 1! that soon 

[He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
fjoin'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd 
f that hearts 

I So gentle, so employ 'd, should close in 
love, 



Than when two dewdrops on the petal 

shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper 

down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit ob- 

tain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not tho' Blanche 

had sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields 
She needs must wed him for her own good 

name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but 

fear'd 
To incense the Head once more ; till on 

a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her 

face 
A little flush'd, and she past on ; but each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent in- 
volved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at 

peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacredhalls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on maid 

and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press m}' claim, 
Nor didmine own, nowreconciled ; noryet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and 

whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat : 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I 

would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
' You are not Ida ' ; clasp it once again. 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not. 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold which seem'd 

a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose my 

mind, 



212 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



And often she believed that I should die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary 

noons, 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when 

clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace floors, 

or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver 

tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days, 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief, 
And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken love. 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd 

dream. 
And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to 

these. 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with 

tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
But such as gather'd colour day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close 

to death 
For weakness: it was evening : silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were 

wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they 

cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the 

rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the other 

side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman 

scowls, 
And half the wolf s-milk curdled in their 

veins. 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them 

paused 
Hortensia pleading : angry was her face. 



I saw the forms : I knew not where I 

was : 
They did but look like hollow shows ; 

nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder seem'd : I moved : I sigh'd : 

a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my 

hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I 

had. 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold, 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun. 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisper- 

ingly : 

' If you be, what I think you, some 

sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself; 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die 

to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I 

die.' 

I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance. 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his 

friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make 

one sign. 
But lies anddreadshis doom. She turn'd ; 

she paused ; 
She stoop'd ; and out of languor leapt a 

cry ; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of 

death ; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms she 

rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a, robe. 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Than in her mould that other, when she 

came 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



213 



From barren deeps to conquer all with 

love ; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt ; 

and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd 

her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of mine, 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she glided 

forth. 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and 

slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy 

sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near 

me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she 

read. 

' Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font : 
The fire-fly wakens : waken thou with me. 

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up. 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me.' 

I heard her turn the page ; she found 
a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she 
read : 

' Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain 
height : 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 



And find him ; by the happy threshold, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the silver horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet ; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees.' 

So she low -toned; while with shut 

eyes I lay 
Listening ; then look'd. Pale was the 

perfect face ; 
The bosom wath long sighs labour'd ; and 

meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the lumi- 
nous eyes. 
And the voice trembled and the hand. 

She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
In sweet humility ; had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labour was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she still were loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to one 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal 

rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous 

laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause 

from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth 

than power 
In knowledge : something wild within 

her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her 

down. 
And she had nursed me there from week 

to week : 



214 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY 



Much had she learnt in little time. In 

part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a girl — 
' Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of 

farce ! 

When comes another such? never, I think, 

Till the Sun drop, dead, from the signs.' 

Her voice 

Choked, and her forehead sank upon her 

hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the faultful 

Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not 

break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird, 
That early woke to feed her little ones. 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume 

fell. 

* Blame not thyself too much, ' I said, 

' nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous 

laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world 

till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that 

know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise 

or sink 
Together, dwarf'd or godlike, bond or 

free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with 

man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to 

one goal. 
Stays all the fair young planet in her 

hands — 
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable. 
How shall men grow ? but work no more 

alone ! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding 

her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her 

down — 



Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 
Within her — let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and be 
All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man. 
But diverse : could we make her as the 

man. 
Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond 

is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 
The man be more of woman, she of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw 

the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward 

care. 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man. 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of 

Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their 

powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing each. 
Distinct in individualities. 
But like each other ev'n as those who love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to 

men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, 

chaste and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of human- 
kind. 
May these things be ! ' 

Sighing she spoke ' I fear 
They will not.' 

' Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watch- 
word rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in i 

thought. 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 
The single pure and perfect animal, 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one 

full stroke, 
Life.' 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 



215 



And again sighing she spoke : * A 


' Nay but thee ' I said 


dream 


'■ From yearlong poring on thy pictured 


That once was mine ! what woman taught 


eyes. 


you this ? ' 


Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, 




and saw 


' Alone,' I said, ' from earUer than I 


Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 


know, 


That mask'd thee from men's reverence 


Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the 


up, and forced 


world, 


Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : 


I loved the woman : he, that doth not, 


now, 


lives 


Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' 


A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 


thee. 


Or pines in sad experience worse than 


Indeed I love : the new day comes, the 


death. 


light 


Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with 


Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 


crime : 


Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts 


Yet was there one thro' whom I loved 


are dead. 


her, one 


My haunting sense of hollow shows : the 


Not learned, save in gracious household 


change, 


ways, 


This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. 


Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, 


Dear, 


No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 


Look up, and let thy nature strike on 


In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 


mine. 


Interpreter between the Gods and men. 


Like yonder morning on the blind half- 


Who look'd all native to her place, and 


world ; 


yet 


Approach and fear not ; breathe upon 


On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere 


my brows ; 


Too gross to tread, and all male minds 


In that fine air I tremble, all the past 


perforce 


Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and 


Sway'd to her from their orbits as they 


this 


moved. 


Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come 


And girdled her with music. Happy he 


Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland 


• With such a mother ! faith in woman- 


reels 


kind 


Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. 


Beats with his blood, and trust in all 


Forgive me. 


things high 


I waste my heart in signs : let be. My 


Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and 


bride, 


fall 


My wife, my life. we will walk this 


1 He shall not blind his soul with clay.' 


world, 


'But I,' 


Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 


J Said Ida, tremulously, ' so all unlike — 


And so thro' those dark gates across the 


It seems you love to cheat yourself with 


wild 


1 words : 


That no man knows. Indeed I love 


iThis mother is your model. I have 


thee : come, 


! heard 


Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are 


i Of your strange doubts : they well might 


one : 


be : I seem 


Accomplish thou my manhood and thy- 


• A mockery to my own self. Never, 


self; 


1 Prince ; 


Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust 


lYou cannot love me.' 


to me.' 



2l6 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 



CONCLUSION 

So closed our tale, of which I give you 

all 
The random scheme as wildly as it rose : 
The words are mostly mine ; for when 

we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and Walter 

said, 
' I wish she had not yielded ! ' then to me, 
' What, if you drest it up poetically ! ' 
So pray'd the men, the women : I gave 

assent : 
Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme of 

seven 
Together in one sheaf ? What style could 

suit? 
The men required that I should give 

throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we banter'd little Lilia first : 
The women — and perhaps they felt their 

power, 
For something in the ballads which they 

sang. 
Or in their silent influence as they sat. 
Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn 

close — 
They hated banter, wish'd for something 

real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 
Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime ? 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? 
Which yet with such a framework scarce 

. could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two. 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists : 
And I, betwixt them both, to please them 

both. 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal. 
And maybe neither pleased myself nor 

them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no 

part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her ; and she sat, she 

pluck'd the grass, 



She flung it from her, thinking : last, she 

fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
' You — tell us what we are ' who might 

have told. 
For she was cramm'd with theories out 

of books, 
But that there rose a shout : the gates 

were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming 

now. 
To take their leave, about the garden 

rails. 

So I and some went out to these : we 

climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of 

peace ; 
Gray halls alone among their massive 

groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic 

tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of 

wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; 

the seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of 

France. 

' Look there, a garden ! ' said my 

college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, 'and 

there ! 
God bless the narrow sea v/hich keeps 

her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within 

herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves 

have made, 
Some patient force to change them when 

we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the 

crowd — 
But yonder, whiff ! there comes a sudden 

heat. 



THE PRINCESS ; A MEDLE Y 



217 



The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not 

fight, 
The little boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the 

world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring 

out ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they 

are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in 

them. 
Like our wild Princess with as \vise a 

dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the narrow 

seas ! 
il wish they were a whole Atlantic broad. ' 

* Have patience,' I replied, ' ourselves 

are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest 

dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, 
The sport half - science, fill me with a 

faith, 
jThis fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it 

time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand that 

guides.' 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden 
rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he 

stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-hoaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and 

look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial English- 
man, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patrop. of some thirty charities, 
A. pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
^. quarter-sessions chairman, abler none ; 



Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy 

morn ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, 

of those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd 

to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as 

closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the 

year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery 

swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches 

of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset ; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king ! Why should not these 

great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a 

year 
To let the people breathe ? So thrice 

they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd 

away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and 

sat on. 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd : 

we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie. 
Perchance upon the future man : the 

walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and 

owls whoop'd. 
And gradually the powders of the night. 
That range above the region of the wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke 

them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds. 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of 

Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir 

Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well 

pleased we went. 



2l8 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON 

PUBLISHED IN 1852 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an eiiipire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 



Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 

As fits an universal woe, 

Let the long long procession go. 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow. 
And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, reso- 
lute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense, 



And, as the greatest only are, 

In his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men 

drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds 

that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be 

seen no more. 



All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 

roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his 

loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime j 

His captain's-ear has heard them boom [ 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
V/hen he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead captain ; 

taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 



219 



A man of well-attcmper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 

VI 

Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd 

guest, 
With banner and with music, with soldier 

and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on 

my rest ? 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous 

man, 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
P'or this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day. 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labour'd rampart-lines, 
Where he greatly stood at bay. 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew. 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms. 
Back to France with countless blows. 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
Follow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamour of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 



And England pouring on her foes. 



Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 

wings. 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler 

down ; 
A day of onsets of despair ! 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd themselves 

away ; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray. 
And down we swept and charged and 

overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there, 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine. 
If love of country move thee there at all, 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine ! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice. 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honour, honour, honour, honour to 

him, 
Eternal honour to his name. 

VII 
A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 

forget. 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 

Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly 

set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming 

showers, 



220 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 



We have a voice, with which to pay the 

debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and re- 
gret 
To those great men who fought, and kept 

it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute 

control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 

the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole. 
And save the one true seed of freedom 

sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march of 

mind. 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns 

be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bad you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who f 

spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the 

hour. 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and 

low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Wlio never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right : 
Truth -teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 



Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
P'ollow'd by the brave of other lands. 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars. 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great. 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes. 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Lito glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands. 
On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has 

won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and 

sun. 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endure. 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land, 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 

pure : 
Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearths he saved 

from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim ;, 

At civic revel and pomp and game, | 

And when the long -illumined cities 

flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 



With honour, honour, honour, honour to 

him, 
Eternal honour to his name. 

IX 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see : 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung : 

O peace, it is a* day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and 

brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
iWhom we see not we revere ; 
[We revere, and we refrain 
[From talk of battles loud and vain, 
'And brawling memories all too free 
iFor such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
iThe tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
iThere must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
Xho' world on world in myriad myriads 
\ roll 

Round us, each with different powers, 
And other forms of life than ours, 
vVhat know we greater than the soul ? 
On God and Godlike men we build our 

trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the 

people's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs 

and tears : 
fhe black earth yawns : the mortal 

disappears ; 
\shes to ashes, dust to dust ; 



lie is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
Speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1852. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY 
1852 y 

My Lords, we heard ymi speak : you told 
us all 
That England's honest censure went 
too far ; 
That our free press should cease to brawl. 
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into 
war. 
It v/as our ancient privilege, my Lords, 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into 
words. 

We love not this French God, the child 

of Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse of 

the wise ; 
But though we love kind Peace so well, 
We dare not ev'n by silence sanction 

lies. 
It might be safe our censures to withdraw ; 
And yet, my Lords, not well : there is a 

higher law. 

As long as we remain, we must speak firee, 
Tho' all the storm of Europe on us 

break ; 
No little German state are we. 

But the one voice in Europe : v/e mtist 

speak ; 
That if to-night our greatness were struck 

dead, 
There might be left some record of the 

things we said. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 



If you be fearful, then must we be bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roU'd 

On her and us and ours for evermore. 
What ! have we fought for Freedom from 

our prime, 
At last to dodge and palter with a public 
crime ? 

Shall we fear him ? our own we never 

fear'd. 
From our first Charles by force we 

wrung our claims. 
Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd. 
We flung the burthen of the second 

James. 
I say, we never feared ! and as for these. 
We broke them on the land, we drove 

them on the seas. 

And you, my Lords, you make the people 
muse 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed — 
Were those your sires who fought at 
Lewes ? 
Is this the manly strain of Runnymede ? 
O fall'n nobility, that, overawed. 
Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this 
monstrous fraud ! 

We feel, at least, that silence here were sin, 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 

hosts — 
If easy patrons of their. kin 

Have left the last free race with naked 

coasts ! 
They knew the precious things they had 

to guard : 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant one 

hard word. 

The' niggard throats of Manchester may 

bawl. 
What England was, shall her true sons 

forget ? 
We are not cotton-spinners all, 

But some love England and her honour 

yet. 
And these in our Thermopylae shall stand, 
And hold against the world this honour 

of the land. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

' Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Charge for the guns ! ' he said : 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



* Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Their's not to make reply, 
Their's not to reason why, 
Their's but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Ill 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the b'attery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 



223 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
WTiile horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

VI 

When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honour the charge they made ! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION 

I 
^ . ..:ft a thousand voices full and sweet, 
In this wide hall vnXh earth's invention 

stored, 
And praise the in\Tsible universal Lord, 
Who lets once more in peace the nations 

I meet, 

Wliere Science, Art, and Lalx)ur have 
outpour'd 
frheir myriad horns of plenty at our feet. 



'O silent father of our Kings to be 
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee, 

ror this, for all, we weep our thanks to 
thee! 



The world-compelling plan was thine, - 
And, lo ! the long laborious miles 
Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles. 
Rich in model and design ; 
Har\-est-tool and husbandry-, 
Ix>om and wheel and enginer}-, 



Secrets of the sullen mine. 

Steel and gold, and corn and wine. 

Fabric rough, or fairy-fine, 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder, out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine ! 

All of beauty, all of use, 

That one fair planet can produce. 

Brought from under every star. 
Blown from over every main. 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of war. 



Is the goal so far away ? 

Far, how far no tongue can say. 

Let us dream our dream to-day. 



O ye, the wise who think, the wise who 

reign, 
From growing commerce loose her latest 

chain, 
And let the fair white-wing'd peacemaker 

fly 
To happy havens under all the sky. 
And mix the seasons and the golden 

hours ; 
Till each man find his own in all men's 

good. 
And all men work in noble brotherhood. 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed 

towers, 
.:\nd ruling by obejnng Nature's powers, 
And gathering all the fruits of earth and 

crown'd with all her flowers. 

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 

MARCH 7, 1863 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra ! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of 

thee, Alexandra ! 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street ! 



224 



A WELCOME TO MARIE ALEXANDROVNA 



Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet) 
Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded 

bowers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air ! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 
Roll as a ground -swell dash'd on the 

strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the 

land. 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire. 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 
O joy to the people and joy to the 

throne, 
Come to us, love us and make us your 

own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be. 
We are each all Dane in our welcome of 

thee, Alexandra ! 



A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL 
HIGHNESS MARIE ALEX- 
ANDROVNA, DUCHESS OF 
EDINBURGH 



MARCH 7, 1874 



The Son of him with whom we strove 
for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his world- 
domain — 



Who made the serf a man, and burst 
his chain — 
Has given our Prince his ov/n imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And welcome, Russian flower, a people's 
pride. 
To Britain, when her flowers begin to 

blow ! 
From love to love, from home to home 
you go. 
From mother unto mother, stately bride, 
Marie Alexandrovna ! 

II 

The golden news along the steppes is 
blown. 
And at thy name the Tartar tents are 

stirr'd ; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have 
heard ; 
And all the sultry palms of India known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The voices of our universal sea 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur 
thee, 

Marie Alexandrovna 

III 

Fair empires branching, both, in lusty 
hfe !— 
Yet Harold's England fell to Norman 

swords ; 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to 
Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne a 
wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs that 
swing, 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and 

floM^; 
But who love best have best the grace 
to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless 
king, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



THE GRANDMOTHER 



225 



And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land, 
Where men are bold and strongly say 
their say ; — • 
', See, empire upon empire smiles to- 
day, 
^As thou with thy young lover hand in 
\ hand 

Alexandrovna ! 
|So now thy fuller life is in the west, 
I Whose hand at home was gracious to 
thy poor : 
Thy name was blest within the narrow 
door ; 

Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, 
Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again ? 
Or at thy coming. Princess, every- 
where, 
The blue heaven break, and some 
diviner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change the 
hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ? 
But hearts that change not, love that 
cannot cease, 
And peace be yours, the peace of soul 

in soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world may roll. 
Between your peoples truth and manful 
peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



THE GRANDMOTHER 



And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was over-wise, 
Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. 



For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save. 
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 



Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock ; 

Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. 

' Here's a leg for a babe of a week ! ' says doctor ; and he would be bound, 

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue ! 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 



Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

T 



226 THE GRANDMOTHER 



For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 



For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 



And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 



And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. 



And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 



All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 



Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. 
And I said, * Let us part : in a hundred years it'll all be the same, 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.' 



And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine 
' Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still.' 



THE GRANDMOTHER 227 



XIV 



' Marry you, Willy ! ' said I, ' but I needs must speak my mind, 
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.' 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, ' No, love, no ' ; 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 



So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born. 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 



That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; 

But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 

XVII 

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 



But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : 
Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 



But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. 

XX 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 



And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 



228 NORTHERN FARMER 



And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left aUve ; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten ; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. 



For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbours come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 



To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 

XXV 

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,- 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ? 



And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 

Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. 

There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 

But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE 
I 

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan ? 
Noorse ? thourt nowt o' a noorse : whoy. Doctor's abean an' agoan 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale : but I beant a fool : 
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to break my rule. 



NORTHERN FARMER 229 



Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 



Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 'ere o' my bed. 

*The amoighty's a taakin o' you ^ to 'issen, my friend,' a said, 

An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond ; 

I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 



Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 

But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Marris's barne. 

Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staate, 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. 



An' I hallus coom'd to 's chooch afoor moy Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock ^ ower my 'eiid, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd awaay. 



Bessy Marris's barne ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt 'a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond. 

VII 

But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says it easy an' freea 

'The amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my firiend,' says 'ea. 

I weiint saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 'aaste : 

But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. 



D'ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um mysen ; 

Moast loike a butter-bump,^ fur I 'eard 'um about an' about. 

But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled 'um out. 

IX 

Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of 'is faace 
Down i' the woild 'enemies ^ afoor I coom'd to the plaace. 
No'aks or Thimbleby — toaner ^ 'ed shot 'um as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my aale. 

1 ou as in hour. 2 Cockchafer. 3 Bittern. 4 Anemones. 5 One or other. 



230 NORTHERN FARMER 



X 

Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn't not fee'ad for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — 
Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor^ yows upon it an' some on it down i' seead.^ 

XI 

Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I me'an'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 

Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thrufif it an' all, 

If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 

Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond o' my oan. 



Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea ? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; 

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! 

And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year, 

XIII 

A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a niver mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plow ! 



Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin' boy. 
Says to thessen naw doubt ' what a man a bea sewer-loy ! ' 
Fur they knaws what I beiin to Squoire sin fust a coom'd to the 'All 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. 

XV 

Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite. 
For who'a's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 

XVI 

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan team. 
Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet. 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 



What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the aale ? 
Doctor's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taiile ; 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my aale I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy. 

1 ou as in hour. 2 Clover. 



NORTHERN FARMER 231 

NORTHERN FARMER 

NEW STYLE 

I 

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaiiy ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou's an ass for thy paains : 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braain^. 

II 

Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam : yen's parson's 'ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou'll be twenty to weeak.^ 
Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 'ear mysen speak. 

Ill 

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee ; 
Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she bean a tellin' it me. 
Thou'll not marry for munny — thou's sweet upo' parson's lass — 
Noa — thou'll marry for luvv — an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. 



Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's-daay — they was ringing the bells. 
She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' gells, 
Them as 'as munny an' all — wot's a beauty ? — the flower as blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. 

V 

Do'ant be stunt : 2 taake time : I knaws what maakes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad ? 
But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this : 
' Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is ! ' 



An' I went wheer munny war : an' thy muther coom to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty : — I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt ? 

VII 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle "^ her bread : 
Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weiint niver git hissen clear, 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shere. 

1 This week. 2 Obstinate. 3 Earn. 



232 NORTHERN FARMER 



An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taai'l they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im a shuvv, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd ^ yowe : fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. 



Luvv ? what's luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither as they've good right to do. 
Could' n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaid by ? 
Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reason why. 



Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn : an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha ? — an ass as near as mays nowt 2 — 
Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha ! — the bees is as fell as owt.^ 

XI 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence ! 
Gentleman burn ! what's gentleman burn ? is it shillins an' pence ? 
Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best. 



Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals. 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' ta'akes their regular meals. 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 



Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy lot. 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt ; leastways 'is munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an 'e died a good un, 'e did. 

XIV 

Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill ! 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill ; 
An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee. 



Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick.- 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'im saay — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay. 

1 Or fow-welter'd, — said of a sheep lying on its back. 
2 Makes nothing. 3 The flies are as fierce as anything. 



THE DAISY 



233 



THE DAISY 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH 

LOVE, what hours were thine and mine, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
|Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 
! 

What Roman strength Turbla show'd 
in ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 
i To meet the sun and sunny waters. 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

W\\2X slender campanili grew 
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 
Where, here and there, on sandy 
beaches 
\ milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
iTet present in his natal grove. 
Now watching high on mountain cor- 
nice, 
Vnd steering, now, from a purple cove. 

Vow pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
rill, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
Vnd drank, and loyally drank to him. 

^or knew we well what pleased us most, 
i^ot the dipt palm of which they boast ; 
; But distant colour, happy hamlet, 
\ moulder'd citadel on the coast, 
1 

1 pr tower, or high hill -convent, seen 
\ light amid its olives green ; 

Or olive -hoary cape in ocean ; 
j)r rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

i |Vhere oleanders flush'd the bed 
I pf silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 
. I And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
^f ice, far up on a mountain head. 



We loved that hall, tho' white and cold. 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Cascine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd. 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires. 

The height, the space, the gloom, the 
glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues. 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair. 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember bow we came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake beyond his limit. 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray. 
And in my head, for half the day. 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way. 



234 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 



Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on The Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me. 
And now it tells of Italy, 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city. 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry. 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 
The gloom that saddens Heaven and 
Earth, 
The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain. 

Perchance, to dream you still beside me. 
My fancy fled to the South again. 

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 

Come, when no graver cares employ. 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter. 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few. 
Who give the Fiend himself his due, 

Should eighty-thousand college-councils 
Thunder 'Anathema,' friend, at you; 



Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you wel- 
come 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You'll have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, J 
And only hear the magpie gossip "^ 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

For groves of pine on either hand. 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand ; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 

And on thro' zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern siri 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; 

How gain in life, as life advances. 
Valour and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 

But when the wreath of March has 
blossom'd. 
Crocus, anemone, violet, 

Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many and many a happy year. 
January, i3s4. 



WILL— THE FLOWER 



235 



WILL 



WELL for him whose will is strong ! 
He suffers, but he will not suifer long ; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong : 
For him nor moves the loud world's 

random mock, 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, 
Who seems a promontory of rock, 
rhat, compass'd round with turbulent 

t sound, 

n middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
"empest-buffeted, citadel-cfown'd. 

II 
But ill for him who, bettering not with time, 
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended 

Will, 
\nd ever weaker grov/s thro' acted crime, 
Dr seeming-genial venial fault, 
Recurring and suggesting still ! 
He seems as one whose footsteps halt, 
roiling in immeasurable sand, 
A.nd o'er a weary sultry land, 
Far beneath a blazing vault. 
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, 
rhe city sparkles like a grain of salt. 

IN THE VALLEY OF 
CAUTERETZ 

\ll along the valley, stream that flashest 

white. 
Deepening thy voice with the deepening 

of the night, 
\11 along the valley, where thy waters fiow, 
[ walk'd with one I loved two and thirty 

years ago. 
\11 along the valley, while I walk'd to-day, 
rhe two and thirty years were a mist that 

rolls away ; 
For all along the valley, down thy rocky 

bed, 
rhy living voice to me was as the voice 

of the dead, 
A.nd all along the valley, by rock and 

cave and tree. 
The voice of the dead was a living voice 

to me. 



IN THE GARDEN AT 
SWAINSTON 

Nightingales warbled without, 
Within was weeping for thee : 

Shadows of three dead men 
Walk'd in the walks with me. 
Shadows of three dead men and thou 
wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in his woods : 

The Master was far away : 
Nightingales warbled and sang 

Of a passion that lasts but a day ; 

Still in the house in his coffin the Prince 
of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 
In courtesy like to thee : 

Two dead men have I loved 
With a love that ever will be : 
Three dead men have 1 loved and thou 
art last of the three. 



THE FLOWER 

Once in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower. 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light. 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower. 

Till all the people cried, 
'Splendid is the flower.' 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 



236 



REQUIESCAT—THE SAILOR BOY— THE ISLET 



And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT 

Fair is her cottage in its place, 

Where yon broad water sweetly slowly 
glides. 

It sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah how soon to die ! 

Her quiet dream of life this hour may 
cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 

THE SAILOR BOY 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbour-bar, 

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope. 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

' O boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

' The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay. 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks. 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play. ' 

' Fool,' he answer'd, ' death is sure 
To those that stay and those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

* My mother clings about my neck. 
My sisters crying, " Stay for shame " ; 

My father raves of death and wreck. 
They are all to blame, they are all to 
blame. 

' God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart. 

Far worse than any death to me.' 



THE ISLET 

' Whither, O whither, love, shall we go. 
For a score of sweet little summers or so?' 
The sweet little wife of the singer said, 
On the day that foUow'd the day she was 

wed, 
'Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?' 
And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash. 
Singing, ' And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd. 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd. 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I 

know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine. 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the 

Sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine. ' 

'Thither, O thither, love, let us go.' 

' No, no, no ! 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear. 

There is but one bird with a musical 

throat, I 

And his compass is but of a single note, jj 
That it makes one weary to hear.' 

' Mock me not ! mock me not ! love, let 
us go.' 

' No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on 

the tree, 
And a storm never wakes on the lonel}' 

sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonely wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens the 

blood ; 
And makes it a sorrow to be.' 



CHILD- SONGS— THE SPITEFUL LETTER 



237 



CHILD-SONGS 



THE CITY CHILD 

Dainty little maiden, whither would you 
wander ? 
Whither from this pretty home, the 
home where mother dwells ? 

• Far and far away,' said the dainty little 

maiden, 
' All among the gardens, auriculas, 
anemones, 
Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells. ' 

Dainty little maiden, whither would you 

wander ? 
Whither from this pretty house, this 

city-house of ours ? 
■ Far and far away,' said the dainty little 

maiden, 

• All among the meadows, the clover and 

the clematis, 
Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle- 
flowers.' 



MINNIE AND WINNIE 

Minnie and Winnie 

Slept in a shell. 
Sleep, little ladies ! 

And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell within, 

Silver without ; 
Sounds of the great sea 

Wander'd about. 

Sleep, little ladies ! 

Wake not soon ! 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the moon. 

Two bright stars 

Peep'd into the shell. 

• What are they dreaming of? 
Who can tell ? ' 

Started a green linnet 

Out of the croft ; 
V/ake, little ladies, 

The sun is aloft ! 



THE SPITEFUL LETTER 

Here, it is here, the close of the year, 

And with it a spiteful letter. 
My name in song has done him much 
wrong, 

For himself has done much better. 

little bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your pages ? 

1 think not much of yours or of mine, 

I hear the roll of the ages. 

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the 
times ! 

Are mine for the moment stronger ? 
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot, 

I last but a moment longer. 

This faded leaf, our names are as brief ; 

What room is left for a hater ? 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf. 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — is that your cry ? 

And men will live to see it. 
Well — if it be so — so it is, you know ; 

And if it be so, so be it. 

Brief, brief is a summer leaf, 
But this is the time of hollies. 

O hollies and ivies and evergreens, 

How I hate the spites and the follies ! 



LITERARY SQUABBLES 

Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 
And look'd at by the silent stars : 

Who hate each other for a song, 
And do their little best to bite 

And pinch their brethren in the throng, 
And scratch the very dead for spite : 

And strain to make an inch of room 
For their sweet selves, and cannot hear 

The sullen Lethe rolling doom 

On them and theirs and all things 



238 



THE VICTIM 



When one small touch of Charity 

Could lift them nearer God-like state 

Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
Like those who cried Diana great : 

And I too, talk, and lose the touch 
I talk of. Surely, after all, 

The noblest answer unto such 

Is perfect stillness when they brawl. 

THE VICTIM 



A PLAGUE upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low, 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 

For on them brake the sudden foe ; 
So thick they died the people cried, 

' The Gods are moved against the land. 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 
' Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us ? 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 
We give you his life.' 



But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd. 

And cattle died, and deer in wood. 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; 
And dead men lay all over the way. 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame : 
And ever and aye the Priesthood moan'd. 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer 
came. 
' The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life.' 



The Priest went out by heath and hill 
The King was hunting in the wild ; 

They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 



The child was only eight summers old, 

His beauty still with his years increased, 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold. 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him, 
And cried with joy, 
' The Gods have answer'd : 
We give them the boy.' 



The King return'd from out the wild. 

He bore but little game in hand ; 
The mother said, ' They have taken the 
child 
To spill his blood and heal the land : 
The land is sick, the people diseased. 

And blight and famine on all the lea : 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased. 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son, 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest ? 
Or I, the wife ? ' 



The King bent low, with hand on brow, 

He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
' O wife, what use to answer now ? 

For now the Priest has judged for me.' 
The King was shaken with holy fear ; 
'The Gods,' he said, 'would have 
chosen well ; 
Yet both are near, and both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot tell ! ' 
But the Priest was happy. 
His victim won : 
' We have his dearest. 
His only son ! ' 



The rites prepared, the victim bared. 

The knife uprising toward the blow 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

' Me, not my darling, no ! ' 
He caught her away with a sudden cry ; 

Suddenly from him brake his wife. 
And shrieking ' / am his dearest, I — 

/ am his dearest ! ' rush'd on the 
' knife. 



WAGES— THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 239 



And the Priest was happy, 
* O, Father Odin, 
We give you a Hfe. 



Which was his nearest ? 
Who was his dearest ? 
The Gods have answer'd 
We give them the wife ! ' 



WAGES 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, 

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea — 

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she : 

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue be dust. 

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly ? 

She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just. 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky : 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which lie seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 

For is He not all but that which has power to feel ' I am I ' ? 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest thy doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and gloom. 



Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet — ■ 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see 5 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He ? 



9L. 



240 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK— A DEDICATION 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK 



The voice and the Peak 

Far over summit and lawn, 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green -rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 

II 

All night have I heard the voice 

Rave over the rocky bar, 
But thou wert silent in heaven, 

Above thee glided the star. 

Ill 

Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all ? 

' I am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave for I fall. 

IV 

' A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West ; 
They leave the heights and are troubled. 

And moan and sink to their rest. 



' The fields are fair beside them, 
The chestnut towers in his bloom ; 

But they — they feel the desire of the deep — 
Fall, and follow their doom. 



' The deep has power on the height. 
And the height has power on the deep 

They are raised for ever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep.' 



Not raised for ever and ever. 
But when their cycle is o'er. 

The valley, the voice, the peak, the star 
Pass, and are found no more. 



The Peak is high and flush'd 
At his highest with sunrise fire ; 

The Peak is high, and the stars are high. 
And the thought of a man is higher. 



IX 



A deep below the deep. 

And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing, 

And our seeing is not sight. 



The voice and the Peak 

Far into heaven withdrawn, 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green - rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 



Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand. 

Little flower — but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in 

all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



A DEDICATION 

Dear, near and true — no truer Time 

himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you ever- 
more 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this and pray 

that he 
Who wrote it, honouring your sweet faith 

in him. 
May trust himself ; and after praise and 

scorn. 
As one who feels the immeasurable 

world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest 

night. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 

fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a 

flower. 1 

1 The fruit of the Spindle-tree {Euonymiis 
Europceus). 



BOADICEA 241 

EXPERIMENTS 

boAdicea 

While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the East Boiidicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodiine, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

* They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating ? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be supplicated ? 
Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering ? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton. 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Camulodune ! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship an emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun ! 

' Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian ! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 

There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? 

' Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating. 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony. 
Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses, 
" Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! 
Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, 
Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet ! 
Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, 
T R 



242 BOA DICE A 



Thine the myriad -rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, 

Thine the lands of lasting smnmer, many-blossoming Paradises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God," 

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier ? 

So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. 

' Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Me the wife of rich Prasiitagus, me the lover of liberty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodune ! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Ciinobeline ! 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, 
Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — they dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary. 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness, 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated. 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us.' 

So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters in her fierce volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments. 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, 
Roar'd as when the roaring breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, 
Then her pulses at the clamouring of her enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary, 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. 



IN QUANTITY— TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD 



243 



IN QUANTITY 

ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER 
Hexameters and Peiitaiueters 

These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer ! 

No — but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. 
When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in England ? 

When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon ? 
Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us, 

Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. 



MILTON 



Alcaics 



O MIGHTY- mouth'd inventor of har- 
monies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gified organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armou ries. 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness. 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle. 
And crimson -hued the stately palm- 
woods 
WTiisper in odorous heights of even. 

Hendecasyllabics 

P YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 
'[rresponsible, indolent reviewers, 
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 
Vll composed in a metre of Catullus, 
A.11 in quantity, careful of my motion, 
^ike the skater on ice that hardly bears 

him, 
-est I fall unawares before the people, 
Vaking laughter in indolent reviewers, 
ihould I flounder awhile without a tumble 
'hro' this metrification of Catullus, 
'hey should speak to me not without a 
welcome, 



All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 
Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, 
So fantastical is the dainty metre. 
Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor 

believe me 
Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 
O blatant Magazines, regard rae rather — 
Since I blush to belaud myself a mo- 
ment — 
As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 
Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 
Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLA- 
TION OF THE ILIAD IN 
BLANK VERSE 

So Hector spake ; the Trojans roar'd 

applause ; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from 

the yoke. 
And each beside his chariot bound his 

own ; 
And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted 

wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, 

and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off 

the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapour far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge ^ of 

war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them 

blazed : 

1 Or, ridge. 



244 



THE WINDOW 



As when in heaven the stars about the 

moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are 

laid, 
And every height comes out, and jutting 

peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the 

stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his 

heart : 



So many a fire between the ships and 

stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of 

Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by 

each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And eating hoary grain and pulse the 

steeds, 
Fixt by their cars, waited the golden 

dawn. Iliad v\\\. 542-561. 



THE WINDOW; 

OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS 



Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to 
exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as ' Orpheus with his 
lute,' and I drest up for him, partly in the old stj^le, a puppet, whose almost only merit is, perhaps 
that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-j'ear-old puppet should 
have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; but the music is now completed, and I am 
bound by my promise. 

Decetnber, 1870. A. Tennyson. 

THE WINDOW 



ON THE HILL 

The lights and shadows fly ! 
Yonder it brightens and darkens down 
on the plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye ! 
Oh is it the brook, or a pool, or her 
window pane. 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ? 

Clouds that are racing above. 
And winds and lights and shadows that 
cannot be still, 
All running on one way to the home 
of my love. 
You are all running on, and I stand on 
the slope of the hill, 
And the winds are up in the morning ! 

Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as 

quick, ever on, on, on. 
O lights, are you flying over her sweet 

little face ? 



And my heart is there before you are 
come, and gone. 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ! 

Follow them down the slope ! 
And I follow them down to the window 
pane of my dear, 
And it brightens and darkens and 
brightens like my hope. 
And it darkens and brightens and darkens 
like my fear. 
And the winds are up in the 
morning. 

AT THE WINDOW 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, 
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flowefr I 
Drop me a flower. I 



THE WINDOW 



245 



Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine ? 
Rose, rose and clematis, 
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss. 
Kiss, kiss— and out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 

GONE 

Gone ! 

Gone, till the end of the year. 

Gone, and the light gone with her, and 

left me in shadow here ! 
Gone — flitted away, 
Taken the stars from the night and the 

sun from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a 

storm in the air ! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I 

know not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a groan : 

she is there ! she is there ! 

WINTER 

The frost is here. 

And fuel is dear, 

And woods are sear. 

And fires burn clear, 

And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light . 

The blue wood-louse, and the plump 

dormouse. 
And the bees are still'd, and the flies are 

kiU'd, 
And you bite far into the heart of the 

house. 
But not into mine. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

The woods are all the searer, 

The fuel is all the dearer. 

The fires are all the clearer, 

Vly spring is all the nearer, 

ioM have bitten into the heart of the 

[ earth, 

^ut not into mine. 



Birds' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there, 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

And you with gold for hair ! 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

Passing with the weather. 
Men's song and men's love. 

To love once and for ever. 

Men's love and birds' love, 

And women's love and men's ! 
And you my wren with a crown of gold, 

You my queen of the wrens ! 
You the queen of the wrens — 

We'll be birds of a feather, 
I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens, 

And all in a nest together. 

THE LETTER 

Where is another sweet as my sweet. 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy ? 

Fine little hands, fine little feet — 
Dewy blue eye. 

Shall I write to her ? shall I go ? 
Ask her to marry me by and by ? 

Somebody said that she'd say no ; 
Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? 

Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace. 

Fly; 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

NO ANSWER 

The mist and the rain, the mist and the 
rain ! 
Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
And never a glimpse of her window pane ! 
And I may die but the grass will grow. 
And the grass will grow when I am gone. 
And the wet west wind and the world 
will go on. 

Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 
No is trouble and cloud and storm. 



246 



THE WINDOW 



Ay is life for a hundred years, 

No will push me down to the worm, 
And when I am there and dead and gone, 
The wet west wind and the world will 
go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and the 
wet ! 
Wet west wind how you blow, you 
blow ! 
And never a line from my lady yet ! 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
Blow then, blow, and when I am gone. 
The wet west wind and the world may 
go on. 

NO ANSWER 

Winds are loud and you are dumb. 
Take my love, for love will come. 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass ! 
Spring is here with leaf and grass : 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, you'll love me then : 

Love can love but once a life. 

THE ANSWER 

Two little hands that meet, 

Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 

Must I take you and break you. 

Two little hands that meet ? 

I must take you, and break you. 

And loving hands must part — 

Take, take — break, break — 

Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all's done. 



Be merry, all birds, to-day, 

Be merry on earth as you never were 
merry before. 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far away, 
And merry for ever and ever, and one 
day more. 

Why ? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 



Look, look, how he flits. 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, 
from out of the pine ! 
Look how they tumble the blossom, the 
mad little tits ! 
' Cuck-oo ! Cuck-00 ! ' was ever a May 
so fine ? 

Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 

O merry the linnet and dove. 

And swallow and sparrow and throstle, 
and have your desire ! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten the 
wings of love. 
And flit like the king of the wrens with 
a crown of fire. 

Why? 
For it's ay ay, ay ay. 



Sun comes, moon comes, 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets, 

Love, fix a day. 

' A year hence, a year hence.' 
' We shall both be gray. ' 

'A month hence, a month hence.' 
' Far, far away. ' 

' A week hence, a week hence.' 

' Ah, the long delay. ' 
' Wait a little, wait a little. 

You shall fix a day.' 

* To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 
And that's an age away.' 

Blaze upon her window, sun. 
And honour all the day. 

MARRIAGE MORNING 

Light, so low upon earth. 

You send a flash to the sun. 
Here is the golden close of love. 

All my wooing is done. 
Oh, the woods and the meadows, 

Woods where we hid from the wet. 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind. 

Meadows in which we met ! 



IN MEMO RI AM 



247 



Light, so low in the vale 

You flash and lighten afar, 
For this is the golden morning of love, 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come. 

By meadow and stile and wood, 
Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart. 

Into my heart and my blood ! 



Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires ? 
O heart, are you great enough for love ? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers. 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 



IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 



OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 

Whom vv'e, that have not seen thy 

face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 

Thou madest man, he knows not 

why, 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not 
how ; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 

They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee. 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before, 



But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ; 

What seem'd my worth since I 
began ; 

For merit lives from man to man. 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth. 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 



I HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 

And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss. 

To dance with death, to beat the ground, 



248 



IN AlEMORIAM 



Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
' Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn.' 

II 

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the under-lying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 

And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom. 
Who changest not in any gale. 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 



O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath. 

What whispers from thy lying lip ? 

'The stars,' she whispers, 'blindly run ; 
A web is wov'n across the sky ; 
^ From out waste places comes a cry 

And murmurs from the dying sun : 

* And all the phantom. Nature, stands— 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands.' 

And shall I take a thing so blind, 

Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark 
I sit within a helmless bark. 

And with my heart I muse and say : 



O heart, how fares it with thee now, 

That thou should'st fail from thy 

desire. 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

' Wliat is it makes me beat so low ? ' 

Something it is which thou hast lost. 

Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling 
tears, 

That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and 
cries, 

' Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.' 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the 

cold : 
But that large grief which these 
enfold 
Is given in outline and no more. 

VI 

One writes, that ' Other friends remain,' 
That ' Loss is common to the race ' — 
And common is the commonplace. 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be, 

Wlio pledgest now thy gallant son ; 

A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 
Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 



IN MEMORIAM 



249 



mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor, — while thy head is 

bow'd, 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 
Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something 
thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With v/ishes, thinking, 'hereto-day,' 

Or ' here to-morrow will he come. ' 

D somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking ' this will please him 
best,' 
she takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her colour 
burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
)nce more to set a ringlet right ; 

Vnd, even when she turn'd, the curse 
; Had fallen, and her future Lord 
i Was drown'd in passing thro' the 
' ford, 

)r kill'd in falling from his horse. 

i) what to her shall be the end ? 

1 And what to me remains of good ? 
' To her, perpetual maidenhood, 
jVnd unto me no second friend. 

VII 

i)ark house, by which once more I stand 

!Here in the long unlovely street. 
Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
;o quickly, waiting for a hand, 



A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzHng rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 



A happy lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well. 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway 
bell, 

And learns her gone and far from home ; 

He saddens, all the magic light 

Dies off at once from bower and hall. 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet, 
The field, the chamber and the street, 

For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 

In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind. 

Which once she foster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains. 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favourable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 



250 



IN ME MORI AM 



All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the 
prow ; 

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I hear the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night : 
I see the cabin-window bright ; 

I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, 

And travell'd men from foreign lands ; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him : w^e have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : O to us. 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine ; 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine. 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the morn without a sound. 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench the 

furze. 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold : 



Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 

bowers. 
And crowded farms and lessening 
towers. 
To mingle with the bounding main : 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 
These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, 

And waves that sway themselves in 

rest. 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 



Lo, as a dove when up she springs 

To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 1 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 

I leave this mortal ark behind, 

A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 

And reach the glow of southern skies,; 
And see the sails at distance rise, I 

And linger weeping on the marge, 'r 

And saying ; * Comes he thus, my friend ; 
Is this the end of all my care ? ' {J 
And circle moaning in the air : i 

' Is this the end ? Is this the end ? ' 

And forward dart again, and play 

About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn 

That I have been an hour away. 

XIII 

Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals, 
And moves his doubtful arms, an 
feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these; 



IN MEMO RI AM 



251 



Which weep a loss for ever new, 

A void where heart on heart reposed ; 
And, where warm hands have prest 
and closed, 

Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice. 
An awful thought, a life removed. 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 
I do not suffer in a dream ; 
For now so strange do these things 
seem. 

Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing, 

And glance about the approaching 

sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' 
bales, 
And not the burthen that they bring. 



If one should bring me this report. 

That thou hadst touch'd the land 

to-day. 
And I went down unto the quay. 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe. 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the 
plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these should come 
. The man I held as half-divine ; 

Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 
And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 

And how my life had droop'd of late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

lAnd I perceived no touch of change, 
I No hint of death in all his frame, 
I But found him all in all the same, 
•I should not feel it to be strange. 



To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping day : 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd. 
The cattle huddled on the lea ; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 

That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher, 

And onward drags a labouring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A looming bastion fringed with fire. 



What words are these have fall'n from me? 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast. 

Or sorrow such a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or storm ; 

But knows no more of transient form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 

Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 

And staggers bUndly ere she sink ? 
And stunn'd me from my power to 
think 

And all my knowledge of myself ; 

And made me that delirious man 

Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 



252 



IN MEMO RI AM 



Thoucomest, much wept for : such a breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky, 
Week after week : the days go by : 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st roam. 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night, 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 

Such precious relics brought by thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. \ 

XVIII 

'Tis well ; 'tis something ; we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'Tis little ; but it looks in truth 

As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to weep. 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart, 
Would breathing thro' his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot find, 

The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no 

more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea- water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot 
fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 



The lesser griefs that may be said, l 

That breathe a thousand tender | 

vows, I 

Are but as servants in a house I 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fulness from the , 

mind : 
' It will be hard,' they say, ' to find ji 

Another service such as this.' 

My lighter moods are like to these, 

That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within. 

And tears that at their fountain freeze ; 

For by the hearth the children sit 

Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the 
breath. 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 

But open converse is there none. 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

' How good ! how kind ! and he is gone.' 



IN ME MORI AM 



253 



I sing to him that rests below, 

And, since the grasses round me v/ave, 
I take the grasses of the grave, 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then, 
And sometimes harshly will he speak : 
' This fellow would make weakness 
weak, 

And melt the waxen hearts of men.' 

Another answers, ' Let him be, 

He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy.' 

A third is wroth : ' Is this an hour 
! For' private sorrow's barren song. 
When more and more the people 
throng 
The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

• A time to sicken and to swoon, 

When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 

Her secret from the latest moon ? ' 

3ehold, ye speak an idle thing : 

Ye never knew the sacred dust : 
I do but sing because I must, 

Vnd pipe but as the linnets sing : 

Vnd one is glad ; her note is ga)'^. 

For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

kcause her brood is stol'n away. 

XXII 

^he path by which we twain did go, 
j^j Which led by tracts that pleased us 
well. 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, 
rom flower to flower, from snow to snow : 

ind we with singing cheer'd the way, 
And, crown'd with all the season 

lent. 
From April on to April went, 

■.nd glad at heart from May to May : 



But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope. 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ; 

Vv'ho broke our fair companionship. 

And spread his mantle dark and 

cold. 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip. 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste. 
And think, that somewhere in the 
waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut. 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I came. 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, How changed from where it 
ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was 

dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan : 

W^ien each by turns was guide to each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed with 
Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 

And all we met was fair and good, 

And all was good that Time could 

bring. 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 



254 



IN MEMORTAM 



And was the day of my delight 

As pure and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of night. 

If all was good and fair we met, 

This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since our first Sun arose and set. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so 

great ? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief? 

Or that the past will always win 
A glory from its being far ; 
And orb into the perfect star 

We saw not, when we moved therein ? 



I know that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared ; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
I loved the weight I had to bear. 

Because it needed help of Love : 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb. 

When mighty Love would cleave in 

twain 
The lading of a single pain, 

And part it, giving half to him. 



Still onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Wliatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 

And goodness, and hath power to 

see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree. 

And towers fall'n as soon as built — 



Oh, if indeed that eye foresee 

Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the 
keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 



I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods : 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 

The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII 

The time draws near the birth of Christ : 
The moon is hid ; the night is still; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hill ' 

Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, I 

From far and near, on mead and j 

moor. 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and 
peace, 

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 



IN MEMORIAM 



255 



This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I ahiiost wish'd no more to wake, 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again : 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 

For they controll'd me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with 

The merry merry bells of Yule. 



With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease, 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ; 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight 

In dance and song and game and jest ? 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and 
Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

bid sisters of a day gone by, 

j Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 

' Why should they miss their yearly 

due 
Before their time ? They too will die. 



iVith trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

Vnd sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

^.t our old pastimes in the hall 
1 We gambol'd, making vain pretence 
f Of gladness, with an awful sense 
pf one mute Shadow watching all. 

Ve paused : the winds were in the beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter 
r land ; 

i And in a circle hand-in-hand 
at silent, looking each at each. 



Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year : impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet : 
' They rest,' we said, ' their sleep is 
sweet,' 

And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : ' They do not 
die 

Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 
Nor change to us, although they change ; 

' Rapt from the fickle and the frail 

With gather'd power, yet the same. 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil.' 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 

Draw forth the cheerful day from 

night : 
O Father, touch the east, and light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 



When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 

And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

' Where wert thou, brother, those four 
days ? ' 
There lives no record of repl)', 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbours met, 
The streets were fill'd with joyful 

sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not ; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 



256 



IN MEMO RI AM 



Iler eyes are homes of silent prayer, 

Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits. 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 

Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's 
feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 
prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so 
pure. 
Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 

XXXIII 

O thou that after toil and storm 

Ma.yst seem to have reach'd a purer 

air. 
Whose faith has centre everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays, 

Her early Heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Tier faith thro' form is pure as thine. 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 



My own dim life should teach me this. 
That life shall live for evermore. 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 



This round of green, this orb of flame. 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to 
choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace, 

Like birds the charming serpent 

draws, 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness and to cease. 



Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow 

house, 
' The cheeks drop in ; the body bows; 

Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : ' 

Might I not say ? ' Yet even here, 

But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive : ' 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea, 

The sound of streams that swift or 

slow 
Draw down Ionian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
' The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and 
more. 

Half-dead to know that I shall die.' 

O me, what profits it to put 

An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd 
the grape, 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



IN MEMORIAM 



257 



XXXVI 

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers. 
Where truth in closest words shall 

fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and 
wrought 
With human hands the creed of 

creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds. 
More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch the 
wave 

In roarings round the coral reef. 



Urania speaks with darken'd brow : 

' Thou pratest here where thou art 

least ; 
This faith has many a purer priest. 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

' Go down beside thy native rill. 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

j\bout the ledges of the hill.' 

[And my Melpomene replies, 

I A touch of shame upon her cheek : 

' I am not worthy ev'n to speak 
Df thy prevailing mysteries ; 

For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

Vnd render human love his dues ; 

But brooding on the dear one dead, 
! And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 
o dying lips is all he said), 



' I murmur'd, as I came along. 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ; 
And loiter'd in the master's field, 

And darken'd sanctities with song.' 



With weary steps I loiter on, 

Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits render'd free. 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 



Old warder of these buried bones. 

And answering now my random 

stroke 
With fruitful cloud and living smoke. 

Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreamless head, 
To thee too comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after flower ; 

But Sorrow — fixt upon the dead, 

And darkening the dark graves of men, — 
What whisper'd from her lying lips? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, 

And passes into gloom again. 

XL 

Could we forget the widow'd hour 

And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower ! 

Wlien crown'd with blessing she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that 
come 
Make April of her tender eyes ; 
S 



258 



IN MEMORIAM 



And doubtful joys the flither move, 

And tears are on the mother's face, 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach. 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In those great offices that suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 

How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride. 

How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have told, 
And bring her babe, and make her 

boast, 
Till even those that miss'd her most 

Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 

Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 

As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, 
As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet that this could be — 

That I could wing my will with 

might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee. 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear implied in death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. 

The bowlings from forgotten fields ; 



Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 
An inner trouble I behold, 
A spectral doubt which makes me 
cold. 

That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 

The wonders that have come to 

thee. 
Thro' all the secular to-be, 

But evermore a life behind. 



XLII 

I vex my heart with fancies dim : 

He still outstript me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'd with him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 

And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves but knows not, 
reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows ? 



If Sleep and Death be truly one, 

And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on ; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 

Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the colour of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 

As when he loved me here in [! 

Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 



IN ME MORI AM 



259 



XLIV 

How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and more ; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not 
whence) 

A Httle flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 

(If Death so taste Lethean springs), 
May some dim touch of earthly 
things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 

O turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLV 

The baby new to earth and sky, 

What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Has never thought that ' this is I ' : 

But as he grows he gathers much. 

And learns the use of 'I,' and ' me,' 
And finds ' I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch.' 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

I From whence clear memory ma}- 

begin, 
' As thro' the frame that binds him in 
!His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath. 
Which else were fruitless of their due. 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 



vVe ranging down this lower track, 

The path we came by, thorn and 

flower. 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

-est life should fail in looking back. 



So be it : there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge shall 
bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past ; 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 

A bounded field, nor stretching far ; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 



That each, who seems a separate whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fusing 

all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 

Enjoying each the other's good : 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away. 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

' Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light.' 



If these brief lays, of Sorrow born. 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here pro- 
posed. 

Then these were such as men might scorn : 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 

She takes, when harsher moods 

remit, 
What slender shade of doubt may 
flit. 
And makes it vassal unto love : 



26o 



IN MEMORIAM 



And hence, indeed, she sports with 
words. 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 

But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 



From art, from nature, from the schools, 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shiver' d lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 

But blame not thou the winds that 

make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down. 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low, 

When the blood creeps, and the 

nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick. 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 

Is rack'd with pangs that conquer 

trust ; 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry, 

And men the flies of latter spring. 
That lay their eggs, and sting and 
sing 

And vv'eave their petty cells and die. 



Be near me when I fade away. 

To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 

LI 

Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would hide? 

No inner vileness that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame. 
See with clear eye some hidden 
shame 

And I be lessen'd in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 

Shall love be blamed for want of 

faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great ; 
Death : ' 

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 

Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours | 
With larger other eyes than ours, ' 

To make allowance for us all. 



I cannot love thee as I ought, 

For love reflects the thing beloved ; 

My words are only words, and moved 
Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

' Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,' 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
' Thou canst not move me from thy 
side, 

Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

' What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears ? 
What record ? not the sinless years 

That breathed beneath the Syrian blue : 

' So fret not, like an idle girl. 

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. 

Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in. 
When Time hath sunder'd shell from 
pearl.' 



IN MEMORIAiM 



261 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish 
noise, 

Who wears his manhood hale and green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild oat not been 

sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had 
grown 
The grain by which a man may live ? 

Or, if we held the doctrine sound 

For life outliving heats of youth. 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good : define it well : 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, and 
be 

Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 

LIV 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of w ill, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroy 'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

I That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 
1 I can but trust that good shall fall 

I At last — far off— at last, to all. 
And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 

No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 

That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar -stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



' So careful of the type ? ' but no. 

From scarped cliff" and quarried stone 
She cries, ' Athousand typesaregone : 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

' Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more.' And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
V/ho roll'd the psahii to wintry skies. 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron hills ? 



262 



IN MEMORIAM 



No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime. 
That tare each other in their sHme, 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! 
What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 

LVII 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song : 
Peace ; come away : we do him 
wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined ; 

But I shall pass ; my v/ork will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 

One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

1 hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And 'Ave, Ave, Ave,' said, 
' Adieu, adieu ' for evermore. 



In those sad words I took farewell : 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls. 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 

Of hearts that beat from day to 

day. 
Half-conscious of their dying clay. 
And those cold crypts where they shall 
cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : ' Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 

Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave.' 



O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife. 
My bosom-friend and half of life ; 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside, Jj 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. ^ 

My centred passion cannot move. 
Nor will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I'll have leave at times to play 

As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell what name were thine. 



He past ; a soul of nobler tone : 

My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is 
set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere. 
She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 

She sighs amid her narrow days, 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbours come and go. 

And tease her till the day draws by : 
At night she weeps, ' How vain 
am I ! 

How should he love a thing so low i ' 



If, in thy second state sublime. 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise. 

The perfect flower of human time ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



263 



And if thou cast thine eyes below, 

How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf'd a growth of cold and 
night, 

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow ! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, 

Wliere thy first form was made a man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakspeare love thee more. 

LXII 

Tho' if an eye that's downward cast 

Could make thee somewhat blench 

or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale. 

And fading legend of the past ; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy. 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies. 
Or in the light of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 



Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven. 

And love in which my hound has 

part. 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these. 

As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
i And yet I spare them sympathy. 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I weep, 
j As, unto vaster motions bound. 

The circuits of thine orbit round 
A higher height, a deeper deep. 



Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 

Andgrasps the skirts of happy chance. 
And breasts the blows of circum- 
stance, 

And grapples with his, evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher. 

Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream. 

The limit of his narrower fate. 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings. 

With one that was his earHest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labour of his hands. 
Or in the furrow musing stands ; 

* Does my old friend remember me ? ' 

LXV 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 

I lull a fancy trouble-tost 

With ' Love's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt.' 

And in that solace can I sing. 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends, 
And thifie effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



Dost thou look back on what hath been, 

!As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began 
' And on a simple village green ; 



You thought my heart too far diseased ; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 



264 



IN MEMORIAM 



The shade by which my Hfe was crost, 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And hke to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest among his friends is 

free, 
Who takes the children on his knee. 

And winds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 
His inner day can never die, 

His night of loss is always there. 



When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that broad water of the west, 

There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name. 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away ; 

From off my bed the moonlight dies ; 

And closing eaves of wearied eyes 
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 



When in the down I sink my head. 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times 

my breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows 
not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with 
dew, 

And all the bugle breezes blew 
Reveillee to the breaking morn. 



But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
Which makes me sad I know not why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 

I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LXIX 

I dream'd there would be Spring no more. 
That Nature's ancient power was 

lost: 
The streets were black with smoke 
and frost. 
They chatter'd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown : 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 

From youth and babe and hoary 

hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns : 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child : 
I found an angel of the night ; 
The voice was low, the look was 
bright ; 

He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 

That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief. 

The words were hard to understand. 



I cannot see the features right. 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



265 



And crowds that stream from yawning 
doors, 

And shoals of pucker'd faces drive ; 

Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores ; 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 



Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
And i-nadness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' sum.mer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of 
wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 

Of men and minds, the dust of change, 
The days that grow to something 
strange, 

In walking as of old we walk'd 

fBeside the river's wooded reach. 

The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 



jRisest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
• And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar 
white. 
And lash with storm the streaming pane ? 

[Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
i To pine in that reverse of doom, 
' Which sicken' d every living bloom, 
And blurr'd the splendour of the sun ; 

jWho usherest in the dolorous hour 

I With thy quick tears that make the 

I rose 

I Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 



Wliomight'sthave heaveda windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, 

play'd 
A chequer- work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet look'd the same. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous 

crime, 
When the dark hand struck down 
thro' time, 
And cancell'd nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morning 

star, 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar. 

And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 

Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day ; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray. 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 

LXXIII 

So many worlds, so much to do, 

So little done, such things to be, 
How know I what had need of thee. 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 

The head hath miss'd an earthly 

wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame. 

Fade wholly, while the soul exults. 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name. 

LXXIV 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 

To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one of his race : 



266 



IN MEMO Rl AM 



So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 

I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid. 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has 
made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



I leave thy praises unexpress'd 

In verse that brings myself relief. 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 

In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 

To raise a cry that lasts not long, 
And round thee with the breeze of 
song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green. 

And, while we breathe beneath the 

sun. 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 

But somewhere, out of human view, 
Whate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXVI 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of 
space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come. 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 



And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy 
bowers 

With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 

And what are they when these remain 
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 



What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him, who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that 
lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks, ' , 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something 
else, 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind. 

Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 



IN MEMORIAM 



267 



Who show'd a token of distress ? 

No single tear, no mark of pain : 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

last regret, regret can die ! 
No — mixt with all this mystic frame, 
Her deep relations are the same, 

But with long use her tears are dry. 

LXXIX 

' More than my brothers are to me,' — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 

1 know thee of what force thou art 
To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 

As moulded like in Nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

.^'or us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
I Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same 
I All winds that roam the twilight came 
In whispers of the beauteous world. 

\\. one dear knee we proffer'd vows, 

One lesson from one book we learn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

?o black and brown on kindred brows. 

IVnd so my wealth resembles thine, 
[ But he was rich where I was poor, 
t And he supplied my want the more 
\s, his unlikeness fitted mine. 

LXXX 

[f any vague desire should rise, 

{ That holy Death ere Arthur died 

1 Had moved me kindly from his side, 
imd dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; 

i'hen fancy shapes, as fancy can, 

i The grief mylossin him had wrought, 

A grief as deep as life or thought, 
5ut stay'd in peace with God and man. 

make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks 
'Ut turns his burthen into gain. 



His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence -rich to soothe and 
save. 

Unused example from the grave 
Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 

LXXXI 

Could I have said while he was here, 

' My love shall now no further range ; 
There cannot come a mellower 
change. 

For now is love mature in ear ' ! 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 

What end is here to my complaint ? 
This haunting whisper makes me 
faint, 

' More years had made me love thee more. ' 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 

* My sudden frost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain, 

It might have drawn from after-heat.' 

LXXXII 

I wage not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and 

face ; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him, can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on. 

From state to state the spirit walks ; 

And these are but theshatter'd stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my heart ; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 

LXXXIII 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 



268 



IN MEMORIAM 



What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew. 

Laburnums, dropping- wells of fire. 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest the sorrow in m}^ blood. 
That longs to burst a frozen bud 
And flood a fresher throat with song. 

LXXXIV 

When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine below, 

"And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown ; 

1 see thee sitting crown'd with good, 

A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and 
kiss. 
On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on, 
When thou should'st link thy life 
with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled ' Uncle ' on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange flower. 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faxes shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honour'd guest. 

Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and gracefiil jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labour fills 
The lips of men with honest praise. 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 



With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers, 

To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe. 

Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought. 

Thy spirit should fail from oft' the globe ; 

What time mine own might also flee. 

As hnk'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal, 

And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant ? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content. 

LXXXV 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, ^ 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost. 

Than never to have loved at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed. 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief. 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above \ 

Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd ; ' 
And whether love for him have 
drain'd 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 



IN ME MORI AM 



269 



The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state, 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes, 

And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, 
Whose life, whose thoughts were little 

worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 
Where all things round me breathed of 
him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 

O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 

How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone. 
His being working in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might ex- 
press 
All-comprehensive tenderness, 

A.ll-subtilising intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

^d in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 
[ That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life, 
3ut in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 



I woo your love : I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch ; 
I, the divided half of such 

A friendship as had master'd Time ; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods. 

And Spring that swells the narrow 

brooks. 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, 

That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 

Recalls, in change of light or gloom. 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
' Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

' I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more.' 

And I, ' Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? ' 

And lightly does the whisper fall ; 

' 'Tis hard for thee to fathom this ; 

I triumph in conclusive bliss. 
And that serene result of all.' 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would 
say ; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end. 

That these things pass, and I shall 

prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 



270 



IN MEMO RI AM 



If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 

The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place. 
That yet ren^embers his embrace. 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, • 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year. 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXVI 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 

That roUest from the gorgeous 

gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

The full new life that feeds thy 

breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt 
and Death, 
111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odour streaming far. 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper ' Peace.' 



LXXXVII 

I past beside the reverend walls 

In which of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town, 

And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high -built organs 

make. 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophet blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 

The same, but not the same ; and 

last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door : 

I linger'd ; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and 
boys 

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor; 

Where once we held debate, a band 

Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labour, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 

But send it slackly from the string ; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 

And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he, 

Would cleave the mark. A willing 

ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to 
hear 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face, 



IN MEMORIAM 



271 



And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 



Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 



IWitch-elms that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and 

bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and 
height 
Df foliage, towering sycamore ; 

jHow often, hither wandering down, 
il My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
\ And shook to all the liberal air 
The dust and din and steam of town : 

liie brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from brawl- 
,1 ing courts 

i^nd dusty purlieus of the law. 

) joy to him in this retreat, 

Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 
he landscape winking thro' the heat : 

^ sound to rout the brood of cares, 

The sweep of scythe in morning 

dew. 
The gust that round the garden flew, 
nd tumbled half the mellowing pears ! 



O bliss, when all in circle drav/n 

About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 

A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and 
flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon : 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray, 
And break the li^long summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to 
theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate, 
Or touch'd the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if I praised the busy town. 

He loved to rail against it still. 
For ' ground in yonder social mill 

We rub each other's angles down, 

' And merge ' he said ' in form and 
gloss 
The picturesque of man and man.' 
We talk'd : the stream beneath us 
ran. 
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss. 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson -circled star 

Had fall'n into her father's grave. 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, 

We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honied hours. 



xc 

He tasted love with half his mind, 

Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
WTiere nighest heaven, who first 
could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind ; 



272 



IN MEMORIAM 



That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their 

life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear, 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who past away. 

Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their 
lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these. 
Not less the yet -loved sire would 

make 
Confusion worse than death, and 
shake 
The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 
Whatever change the years have 

wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 

And rarely pipes the mounted thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night, 

But where the sunbeam broodeth 

warm. 
Come, beauteous in thine after form. 

And like a finer light in light 



XCII 

If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it vain 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments, 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 

XCIII 

I shall not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land 

Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 

But he, the Spirit hinaself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is 
numb ; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change. 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 
The wish too strong for words to 

name ; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

XCIV 

How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought 
would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 



IN MEMORIAM 



273 



In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst say 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair, 
The memory like a cloudless air. 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din. 

And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates. 

And hear the household jar within. 



By night we linger'd on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 

Unwavering ; not a cricket chirr'd : 
The brook alone far-off was heard. 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies. 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine 
capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

While now we sang old songs that peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd 

at ease. 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field. 

iBut when those others, one by one, 
! j Withdrew themselves from me and 
I nigl^t, 

I And in the house light after light 

i |iVent out, and I was all alone, 

\ hunger seized my heart ; I read 

Of that glad year which once had 

been, 
In those fall'n leaves VN^hich kept 
their green, 
he noble letters of the dead : 



And strangely on the silence broke 

The silent - speaking words, and 

strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigour, Ijold to dwell 

On doubts thatdrive the coward back. 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 

The dead man touch'd me from the 

past, » 

And all at once it seem'd at last 

The living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in this was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought. 
And came on that which is, and 
caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

/Eonian music measuring out 

The steps of Time— the shocks of 

Chance — 
The blows of Death. At length 
my trance 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech. 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 

The knolls once more where, couch'd 

at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field : 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 

Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and 

swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said 



274 



IN ME MORI AM 



'The dawn, the dawn,' and died away ; 
And East and West, without a 

breath, 
Mixt their dim Hghts, Hke Hfe and 
death, 
To broaden into boundless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn, 

Sweet -hearted, you, whose Hght- 

bhie eyes 
Are tender over drowning fiies. 

You tell me, doubt is Devil -born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 

In many a subtle question versed. 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt, 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd 
strength. 
He would not make his judgment 

blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them : thus he caine at length 

To find a, stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the 

night, 
Which makes the darkness and the 
light, 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of 
gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVII 

My love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 



Two partners of a married life — 

I look'd on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye. 
Their hearts of old have beat in 

tune. 
Their meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

j Her life is lone, he sits apart. 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 
He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind. 
He reads the secret of the star. 
He seems so near and yet so far. 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss : 
She knows not what his greatness is, 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house. 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move. 

She darkly feels him great and wise, 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, : 

' I cannot understand : I love.' i 



You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him ; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, || 
That City. All her splendour seems ' 
No livelier than the wisp that gleam? 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 



IN ME MORI AM 



275 



Let her great Danube rolling fair 

Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from 

friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 

By each cold hearth, and sadness 

flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings : 

And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content. 
He told me, lives in any crowd, 

I When all is gay with lamps, and 

loud 
With sport and song, in booth and tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and 

breaks 
The rocket molten into flakes 
I Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud with voices of the birds. 
So thick with lowings of the herds. 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

fWho tremblest thro' thy darkling red 

On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles 

fast 
By meadows breathing of the past. 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 

A song that slights the coming care. 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 



Who wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth. 
Memories of bridal, or of birth. 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O wheresoever those may be, 

Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 

They know me not, but mourn with me. 



I climb the hill : from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold. 

Or low morass and whispering 

reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 

That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy 
curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway. 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved, that beech will gather 
brown. 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 

Ray round with flames her disk of 

seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 



276 



IN MEMORIAM 



Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 

The brook shall babble down the 

plain, 
At noon or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 

And flood the haunts of hern and 

crake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the vv'ild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape 
grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the labourer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



We leave the v/ell-beloved place 

Where first we gazed upon the sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest 
cry, 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home. 

As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, ' Here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and 

heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung.' 

The other answers, ' Yea, but here 

Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 
With thy lost' friend among the 
bowers. 

And this hath made them trebly dear.' 

These two have striven half the day. 

And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game. 

That will not yield each other way. 



I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and 
farms ; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 



On that last night before we went 

From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall. 

And maidens with me : distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 

They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me, 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
For ever : then flew in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea : 

And when they learnt that I must go 
They wept and wail'd, but led the 

way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff" that made the 

banks. 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore 

And roU'd the floods in grander 

space, 
The maidens gather'd strength and 
grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every 
limb ; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



277 



As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 

Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong : 
'We served thee here,' they said, 
' so long. 

And wilt thou leave us now behind ? ' 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replying, ' Enter likewise ye 

And go with us ' : they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
Westeer'd her toward a crimson cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 



The time draws near the birth of Christ ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still ; 

A single church below the hill 
lis pealing, folded in the mist. 

\ single peal of bells below. 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

L.ike strangers' voices here they sound. 
In lands where not a memory strays. 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

3ut all is new unhallow'd ground. 



l^f-'o-night ungather'd let us leave 

This laurel, let this holly stand : 
We live within the stranger's land, 
nd strangely falls our Christmas-eve. 



Our father's dust is left alone 

And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine 
blows. 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 

The genial hour with mask and 

mime ; 
For change of place, like growth of 
time. 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 

By which our lives are chiefly 

proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be 
blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; 

Run out your measured arcs, and 
lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 

CVI 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankmd. 



78 



IN MEMORIAM 



Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 

The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



It is the day when he was born, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and 
clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 

To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast. But fetch 
the wine. 

Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie. 
To make a solid core of heat ; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 



We keep the day. With festal cheer. 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

CVIII 

I will not shut me from my kind. 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone. 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

W^hat profit lies in barren faith, 

And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale the heaven's highest height. 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

What find I in the highest place. 

But mine own phantom chanting 

hymns ? 
And on the depths of death there 
swims 
The reflex of a human face. 

I'll rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'Tis held that sorrow makes us 
wise. 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



Heart-afiluence in discursive talk 

From household fountains never 

dry ; 
The critic clearness of an eye. 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of 
man ; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good. 

But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 

Of freedom in her regal seat 

Of England ; not the schoolboy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



279 



And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have look'd on : if they look'd in 

vain, 
My shame is greater who remain. 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 

The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 
, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 

The proud was half disarm'd of 

pride. 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

: The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

j Was soften'd, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart, 

And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they 
were thine, 
1 The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, 

But mine the love that will not tire, 
j And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 
I Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, 

I To him who grasps a golden ball. 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 

His want in forms for fashion's 

sake. 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 



For who can always act ? but he. 

To whom a thousand memories call. 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be. 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each ofiice of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite. 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



High wisdom holds my wisdom less. 

That I, who gaze with temperate 

eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies. 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 

Of all my love, art reason why • 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up for ever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too 
much. 

In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought, 

And tracts of calm from tempest 

made. 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 



'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with 
thee 

Which not alone had guided me. 
But served the seasons that may rise ; 



28o 



IN MEMORIAM 



For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : 

A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and go, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrowings, and with cries, 

And undulations to and fro. 



Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall 
rail 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
With men and prosper ! Who shall 
fix 
Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenance 
, And leaps into the future chance, 
Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith. 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons ? fiery-hot to burst 

All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind, 

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O, friend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 



I would the great world grew like thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and 
hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and 
thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

J^\i&x& now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their 
sky 
To build and brood ; that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxvi 

Is it, then, regret for buried time 

That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and 
takes 

The colours of the crescent prime ? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re-orient out of dust. 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone ; 
And that dear voice, I once have 
known, 

Still speak to me of me and mine : 



IN MEMORIAM 



281 



Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead ; 

Less yearning for the friendship 
fled, 
Than some strong bond which is to be. 



O days and hours, your work is this 

To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace. 

For fuller gain of after bliss : 

That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundredfold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs, 

And every span of shade that 
i steals, 

( And every kiss of toothed wheels, 
And all the courses of the suns. 



Contemplate all this work of Time, 
; The giant labouring in his youth ; 
' Nor dream of human love and truth, 
l\s dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
; For ever nobler ends. They say, 
The solid earth whereon we tread 

'n tracts of fluent heat began. 

And grew to seeming-random forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 
ill at the last arose the man ; 

^o throve and branch'd from clime to 
clime, 
The herald of a higher race. 
And of himself in higher place, 

f so he type this work of time 

Vithin himself, from more to more ; 
' !• Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and 
show 
hat life is not as idle ore. 



But iron dug from central gloom. 

And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 



Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; the city sleeps ; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long-with- 
drawn 

A light-blue lane of early dawn. 
And think of early days and thee. 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, 
And bright the friendship of thine 

eye ; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 



I trust I have not wasted breath : 

I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with 
Death ; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 

Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 



Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 

And ready, thou, to die with him. 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 



282 



IN MEMORIAM 



The team is loosen'd from the wain, 

The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou hstenest to the closing door, 

And Ufe is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 
By thee the world's great work is 

heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market boat is on the stream, 

And voices hail it from the brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer 
clink, 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my 
past, 
Thy place is changed ; thou art the 
same. 

CXXII 

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, 
While I rose up against my doom, 
And yearn'd to burst the folded 
gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again, 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law ; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow. 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath. 
And like an inconsiderate boy. 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death ; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 

And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 



CXXIII 

There rolls the deep where grew the tree. 
O earth, what changes hast thou 

seen ! 
There where the long street roars, 
hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 

From form to form, and nothing 

stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 
Like clouds they shape themselves and 

go- 
But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it 

true ; 
For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

cxxiv 

That which we dare invoke to bless ; 

Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He, They, One, All ; within, with- 
out ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor thro' the questions men may 
try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 

I heard a voice ' believe no more ' 
And heard an ever-breaking shore i 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; j 

A warmth within the breast would melt j 

The freezing reason's colder part, { 

And like a man in w^rath the heart I 

Stood up and answer'd ' I have felt.' 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 

But that blind clamour made me 

wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



283 



And what I am beheld again 

\Vhat is, and no man understands ; 

And out of darkness came the hands 
that reach thro' nature, moulding men. 



^Vhatever I have said or sung, 

Some bitter notes my harp would give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

f\. contradiction on the tongue, 

itt Hope had never lost her youth ; 

She did but look through dimmer 
j eyes ; 

1 Or Love but play'd with gracious lies. 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

iVnd if the song were full of care, 
\ He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and 
strong 
,ie set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 
' To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
I And this electric force, that keeps 
\ thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

I 

CXXVI 

vove is and was my Lord and King, 
[ And in his presence I attend 

To hear the tidings of my friend, 
fVhich every hour his couriers bring. 

rve is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 
^ncompass'd by his faithful guard, 

\.nd hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place, 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

n the deep night, that all is well. 

CXXVII 

id all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; 
Well roars the storm to those that 
hear 
^ deeper voice across the storm, 



Proclaiming social truth shall spread. 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 

The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the sky. 

And the great ^on sinks in blood, 

And compass'd by the fires of Hell ; 

While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 

And smilest, knowing all is well. 



The love that rose on stronger wings, 

Unpalsied when he met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 

Of onward time shall yet be made. 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and P'ear, 
If all your ofiice had to do 
With old results that look like new ; 

If this were all your mission here. 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 

To fool the crowd with glorious 

lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries. 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power. 

To cramp the student at his desk. 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 



284 



IN MEMORIAM 



CXXIX 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 

So far, so near in woe and weal ; 

loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst nt^t 
die, 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; 

Strange frieiid, past, present, and to be ; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good. 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

cxxx 

Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

1 hear thee where the waters run ; 
Thou standest in the rising sun, 

And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature 
thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 



O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer 
shock, 

Rise in the spiritual rock. 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust, 



With faith that comes of self-control, 

The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O true and tried, so well and long, 

Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 

Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house ; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 
Some thrice three years : they went 

and came. 
Remade the blood and changed the 
frame, 
And yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dying songs a dead regret, 
But like a statue solid-set. 

And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are flown, 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times. 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal fl.ower, \ 

That must be made a wife ere noon ? | 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 

And then on thee ; they meet thy Io(^ 
And brighten''like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud. 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she grows j 

For ever, and as fair as good. ' 



IN MEMORIAM 



285 



And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out : the noon is near, 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

^nd me behind her, will not fear. 

For I that danced her on my knee, 

That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, 
That shielded all her life from harm 

A.t last must part with her to thee ; 

!»fow waiting to be made a wife, 

Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her head, 

\nd the most living words of life 

■Breathed in her ear. The ring is on. 
The 'wilt thou' answer'd, and again 
The 'wilt thou' ask'd, till out of 
twain 
ler sweet ' I will ' has made you one. 

S[ow sign your names, which shall be 
read. 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn. 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

fhe names are sign'd, and overhead 

begins the clash and clang that tells 

The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

'he dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

) happy hour, and happier hours 

A^vait them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

"hat pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

■) happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the 
grave 

"hat has to-day its sunny side. 

'o-day the grave is bright for me, 

For them the light of life increased, 
Wlio stay to share the morning feast, 

Hio rest to-night beside the sea. 



Let all my genial spirits advance 

To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays. 

And hearts are warm'd and faces 

bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and 
groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest. 
Perchance, perchance, among the 
rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white - favour'd horses 

wait ; 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 

From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew. 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she look'd, and what he 
said. 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, 

The shade of passing thought, the 

wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health. 

The crowning cup, the three-times-three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 

Dumb is that tower which spake so 

loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming 
cloud, 
And on the downs a rising Are : 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapour sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town. 



ii 



286 



MAUD 



The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and 
spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors, 
With tender gloom the roof, the 

wall ; 
And breaking let the splendour fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds. 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 



Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 

On knowledge ; under whose com- 
mand 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their 
hand 
Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves. 
One God, one law, one element. 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 



MAUD; A MONODRAMA 

PART I 

I 

I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little v/ood. 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers ' Death.' 



For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 
His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground : 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 



Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast speculation had fail'd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair. 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright, 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 



MA UD 287 



Villainy somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintained : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 

VI 

Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have made them a curse, 

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? 



But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind. 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his M'ord ? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 

VIII 

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, 

Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes and dust. 



Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by. 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine. 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife. 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread. 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, 



And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villainous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 

XII 

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 



288 MAUD 



For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam. 
That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard wand, home.- 

XIV 

What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? 
Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie ? 



Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 

XVI 

I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear ? 



Workn-icn up at the Hall ! — they are coming back from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionaire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. 



Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — 

XIX 

What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe to his own. 

n 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! 
It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savour nor salt. 
But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, 
Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the fault ? 



MAUD 289 



All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null. 

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose, 

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full, 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose. 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. 

Ill 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek. 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd. 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek, 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound. 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more. 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar, 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in. a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 

IV 



A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland. 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime. 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapphire -spangled marriage ring of the land ? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, gHmmers the Hall 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 



When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd : 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 
O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well -gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 
T U 



290 MA UD 



I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 



A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flairie, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth. 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? 



The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about ? 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 

Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail ? 

Or an infant civilisation be ruled with rod or with knout ? 

/ have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 

in: 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways. 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-ofF from the clamour of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 



MA UD 



291 



And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will ; 
You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life. 



A voice by the cedar tree 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 

A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 

Singing alone in the morning of life, 

In the happy morning of life and of May, 

Singing of men that in battle array. 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face, 

''\nd wild voice pealing up to the sunny 

sky, 
Vnd feet like sunny gems on an English 

green, 
tvlaud in the light of her youth and her 
[ grace, 

jjinging of Death, and of Honour that 

cannot die, 
^'ill I well could weep for a time so sordid 

and mean, 
ind myself so languid and base. 



\ Hence, beautiful voice ! 

\ te still, for you only trouble the mind 

I. j/ith a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

[ j. glory I shall not find. 

I till ! I will hear you no more, 
lOr your sweetness hardly leaves me a 

choice 
!ut to move to the meadow and fall before 
er feet on the meadow grass, and adore, 
ot her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 
ot her, not her, but a voice. 



VI 



Morning arises stormy and pale. 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud. 

And the budded peaks of the wood are 

bow'd 
Caught and cufif'd by the gale : 
I had fancied it would be fair. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 

Last night, when the sunset burn'd 

On the blossom'd gable-ends 

At the head of the village street, 

Whom but Maud should I meet ? 

And she touch'd my hand with a smile 

so sweet, 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 

Ill 

And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my 

dreams. 
Ready to burst in a colour'd flame ; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gray delight. 

IV 

What if with her sunny hair. 

And smile as sunny as cold. 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



il 



292 



MAUD 



Ah, what shall I be at fift)^ 

Should Nature keep me alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five ? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile were all that I dream'd. 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me. 
What if that dandy-despot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery. 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
SmeUing of musk and of insolence. 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof. 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof. 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd. 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes. 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A \yretched vote may be gain'd. 

VII 

For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and 

ward. 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea, too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood. 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died, 
My mother, who was so gentle and 

good? 
Living alone in an empty house. 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 
Where I hear the dead at midday moan, 



And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse. 
And my own sad name in corners cried. 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide. 
Till a morbid hate and horror have 

grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 

IX 

O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 
For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of 

love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendour, her 

hand. 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 



I have play'd with her when a child ; 

She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile had all that I dream'd. 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII 



Did I hear it half in a doze 

Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair ? 



Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

' Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be.' 



MAUD 



293 



Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night ? 



Strange, that I hear two men, 
Somewhere, talking of me ; 

* Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be. ' 

VIII 

She came to the village church, 

And sat by a pillar alone ; 

An angel watching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone ; 

And once, but once, she lifted her 

eyes, 
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante, 
Delicate-handed priest intone ; 
And thought, is it pride, and mused and 

sigh'd 
No surely, now it cannot be pride.' 

IX 

I was walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land. 
Rapidly riding far away. 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side. 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendour 

plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died. 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted 

mine 
Master of half a servile shire. 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line. 
Rich in the grace all women desire. 
Strong in the power that all men adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year, 
There amid perky larches and pine. 
And over the sullen -purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



What, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched race. 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



Last week came one to the county town. 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings. 



294 



MAUD 



Tho' the state has done it and thrice as 

well : 
This broad - brimm'd hawker of holy 

things, 
Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, 

and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, 
This huckster put down war ! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence ? 
Put down the passions that make earth 

Hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride. 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside. 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 



I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great wrong, 

To take a wanton dissolute boy 

For a mian and leader of men. 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, 
like some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by. 
One still strong man in a blatant land. 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 



And ah for a man to arise in me, 
That the man I am may cease to be ! 

XI 
I 

let the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet ; 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 



Let the sweet heavens endure, 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 

XII 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

II 

Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

Myriads blow together. 



Birds in our wood sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 

IV 

I kiss'd her slender hand, 
She took the kiss sedately ; 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately. 



I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favour ! 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her. 



I know the way she went 

Home with her maiden posy. 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her. 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud? 
One is come to woo her. 



MAUD 



295 



VIII 

Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charley snarling, 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her darling. 

XIII 



Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, 
Is that a matter to make me fret ? 
That a calamity hard to be borne ? 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! 
I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
He stood on the path a little aside ; 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and 

white, 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonised me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 



Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? 
For only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be untrue ; 
\nd Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : 
rho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
powever she came to be so allied. 



And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her modier, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 

XIV 

I 

Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
jiVnd tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 



Maud's own little oak-room 

(Which Maud, like a precious stone 

Set in the heart of the carven gloon% 

Lights with herself, when alone 

She sits by her music and books 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roystering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden -gate : 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as 

white 
As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the hasp of the window, and my 

Delight 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, 

to glide, 
Like abeam of the seventh Heaven, down 

to my side. 
There were but a step to be made. 



The fancy flatter'd my mind, 

And again seem'd overbold ; 

Now I thought that she cared for me. 

Now I thought she was kind 

Only because she was cold. 



296 



MAUD 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it 

swell'd 
Now and then in the dim -gray dawn ; 
But I look'd, and round, all round the 

house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath. 
Knew that the death-white curtain meant 

but sleep, 
Yet I shudder 'd and thought like a fool 

of the sleep of death. 

XV 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 
And I make myself such evil cheer, 

That if / be dear to some one else, 

Then some one else may have much to 
fear ; 

But if / be dear to some one else. 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that I think, 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink. 

If I be dear. 

If I be dear to some one else. 

XVI 



This lump of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to 

seek. 
And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and 

drown 
His heart in the gross mud-honey of town. 
He may stay for a year who has gone for 

a week : 
But this is the day when I must speak. 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day ! 
O beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, 



And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the 

crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew it. 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 
I know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord, 

Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 

Should I love her so well if she 

Had given her word to a thing so low ? 

Shall I love her as well if she 

Can break her word were it even for me ? 



I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 



XVII 

Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day. 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Ro^y is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing ships ; 
Over blowing seas. 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news. 

Blush it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree. 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 



MAUD 



297 



Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 



XVIII 



I have led her home, my love, my only 

friend. 
There is none like her, none. 
And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on 
Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end, 
,Full to the banks, close on the promised 
I good. 



None like her, none. 

fust now the dry-tongued laurels' patter- 
ing talk 

^eem'd her light foot along the garden 

1 walk, 

And shook my heart to think she comes 
once more ; 

But even then I heard her close the 
door, 
he gates of Heaven are closed, and she 
is gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

iSTor will be when our summers have 

deceased. 
p, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
Ln the long breeze that streams to thy 
' delicious East, 

5ighing for Lebanon, 
3ark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here 

increased, 
Jpon a pastoral slope as fair, 
Vnd looking to the South, and fed 
Vith honey'd rain and delicate air, 
\nd haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed my 

fate, 



And made my life a perfumed altar- flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must have 

spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, thy 

great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from 

whom she came. 



Here will I lie, while these long branches 

sway. 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play. 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labour and the mattock-harden'd 

hand. 
Than nursed at ease and brought to 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 

skies. 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a 

pearl 
The countercharm of space and hollow 

sky. 
And do accept my madness, and would die 
To save from some slight shame one 

simple girl. 



Would die ; for sullen - seeming Death 

may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to 

live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



298 



MAUD 



Not die ; but live a life of truest breath, 

And teach true life to fight with mortal 
wrongs. 

O, wh}' should Love, like men in drink- 
ing-songs, 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 
death ? 

Make answer, Maud my bliss, 

Maud made my Maud by that long loving 
kiss, 

Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? 

' The dusky strand of Death inwoven 
here 

With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself 
more dear.' 



Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay ? 
And hark the clock within, the silver 

knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal 

white. 
And died to live, long as my pulses play ; 
But now by this my love has closed her 

sight 
And given false death her hand, and stol'n 

away 
To dreamful wastes where footless fancies 

dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy 

spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
My own heart's heart, my ownest own, 

farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go : 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the 

glow 
Of your soft splendours that you look so 

bright ? 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things 

below. 



Beat with my heart more blest than heart 
can tell, 1 

Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 
woe 

That seems to draw — but it shall not be 
so : 

Let all be well, be well. 

XIX 



Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
O when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark -dawning youth, i 

Darken'd watching a mother decline I 
And that dead man at her heart and; 
mine : j 

For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 



I trust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud in our walk 

(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things)) 

But I trust that I did not talk, 

Not touch on her father's sin : 

I am sure I did but speak 

Of my mother's faded cheek 

When it slowly grew so thin. 

That I felt she was slowly dying 

Vext with lawyers and harass'd with 

debt : i 

For how often I caught her with eyes allj 

wet. 
Shaking her head at her son and sighing 
A world of trouble vv'ithin ! 



And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn. 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 



MAUD 



299 



iFrom him who had ceased to share her 

heart, 
lAnd ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with blood 
By which our houses are torn : 
How strange was what she said, 
vVhen only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed — 
^rhat Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine, 
Dn the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 

breath. 
[Mine, mine by a right, from birth till 
t death. 

Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 



But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond. 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 

sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something 

beyond, 
V desire that awoke in the heart of the 

child, 
\s it were a duty done to the tomb. 
To be friends for her sake, to be recon- 
ciled ; 
Vnd I was cursing them and my doom. 
And letting a dangerous thought run 

wild 
'Vhile often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there, 
'bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
ro be friends, to be reconciled ! 

VI 
'^ut then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 

find whenever she touch'd on me 
rhis brother had laugh'd her down, 
Vnd at last, when each came home, 
le had darken'd into a frown, 
-Ihid her, and forbid her to speak 
Po me, her friend of the years before ; 
Vnd this was what had redden'd her 
I cheek 

'Vhen I bow'd to her on the moor. 



Yet Maud, altho' not blind 

To the faults of his heart and mind, 

I see she cannot but love him. 

And says he is rough but kind, 

And wishes me to approve him, 

And tells me, when she lay 

Sick once, with a fear of worse. 

That he left his wine and horses and play. 

Sat with her, read to her, night and day. 

And tended her like a nurse. 

VIII 

Kind ? but the deathbed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why let it be so : 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 

As long as my life endures 

I feel I shall owe you a debt, 

That I never can hope to pay ; 

And if ever I should forget 

That I owe this debt to you 

And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

O then, what then shall I say ? — 

If ever I should forget, 

May God make me more wretched 

Than ever I have been yet ! 



So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight. 

That I should grow light-headed, I fear, 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 

XX 



Strange, that I felt so gay. 
Strange, that / tried to-day 



30O MAUD 


To beguile her melancholy ; 


Come out to your own true lover, 


The Sultan, as we name him, — 


That your true lover may see 


She did not wish to blame him — 


Your glory also, and render 


But he vext her and perplext her 


All homage to his own darling. 


With his worldly talk and folly : 


Queen INIaud in all her splendour. 


Was it gentle to reprove her 




For stealing out of view 


XXI 


From a little lazy lover 




Who but claims her as his due ? 


Rivulet crossing my ground, 


Or for chilling his caresses 


And bringing me down from the Hall 


By the coldness of her manners, 


This garden-rose that I found, 


Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 


Forgetful of Maud and me, 


Now I know her but in two, 


And lost in trouble and moving round 


Nor can pronounce upon it 


Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 


If one should ask me whether 


And trying to pass to the sea ; 


The habit, hat, and feather, 


Rivulet, born at the Hall, 


Or the frock and gipsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 


My Maud has sent it by thee 


(If I read her sweet will right) 


For nothing can be sweeter 


On a blushing mission to me. 


Than maiden Maud in either. 


Saying in odour and colour, ' Ah, be 




Among the roses to-night.' 


II 
But to-morrow, if we live, 


v/ XXII 


Our ponderous squire will give 


I 


A grand pohtical dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover, 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear, 




Come into the garden, Maud, 


For the black bat, night, has flown, 


Come into the garden, Maud, 


I am here at the gate alone ; 


And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 


III 


And the musk of the rose is blown. 


A grand political dinner 


II 


To the men of many acres. 


For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she 
loves 


A gathering of the Tory, 


A dinner and then a dance 


For the maids and marriage-makers, 


And every eye but mine will glance 


On a bed of daffodil sky, 
To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 


At Maud in all her glory. 


IV 


To faint in his light, and to die. 


For I am not invited, 


Ill 


But, with the Sultan's pardon, 


All night have the roses heard 


I am all as well delighted. 


The flute, violin, bassoon ; 


For I know her own rose-garden. 


All night has the casement jessamine 


And mean to linger in it 


stirrd 


Till the dancing will be over ; 


To the dancers dancing in tune ; 


And then, oh then, come out to me 


Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 


For a minute, but for a minute. 


And a hush with the setting moon. 



MAUD 



301 



IV 

I said to the lily, ' There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play.' 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



[ said to the rose, ' The brief night goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

P young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

* For one that will never be thine ? 

■But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the 

I rose, 

* For ever and ever, mine.' 



\nd the soul of the rose went into my 
blood, 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
i\nd long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
"rom the lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

VII 

'rom the meadow your walks have left 

so sweet 
1 That whenever a March-wind sighs 
jie sets the jewel -print of your feet 
i In violets blue as your eyes, 
i. o the woody hollows in which we meet 
I And the valleys of Paradise. 

I VIII 

i he slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

'he white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

; As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 

lut the rose was awake all night for your 
sake. 
Knowing your promise to me ; 

he lilies and roses were all awake, 
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done. 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, ' She is near, she is 
near ' ; 

And the white rose weeps, ' She is 
late ' ; 
The larkspur listens, ' I hear, I hear ' ; 

And the lily whispers, ' I wait.' 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 



PART II 
I 

' The fault was mine, the fault was 

mine ' — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still. 
Plucking the harmless wild- flower on the 

hill ?— 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening land — 
Wliat is it, that has been done ? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising 

sun. 
The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 



302 



MAUD 



For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a 

word, 
When her brother ran in his rage to the 

gate, 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 
And while she wept, and I strove to be 

cool, 
He fiercely gave me the lie. 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 
And he struck me, madman, over the 

face, 
Struck me before the languid fool. 
Who was gaping and grinning by : 
Struck for himself an evil stroke ; 
Wrought for his house an irredeemable 

woe ; 
For front to front in an hour we stood. 
And a million horrible bellowing echoes 

broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the 

wood. 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christ- 
less code. 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? 
' The fault was mine,' he whisper'd, ' fly !' 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a passionate 

cry, 
A cry for a brothers blood : 
It will ring in my heart and my ears, till 

I die, till I die. 



Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 

What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ? 

Yet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet. 

High over the shadowy land. 

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 

gentle rain. 
When they should burst and drown with 

deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger and 

lust, 
The little hearts that know not how to 

forgive : 



Arise, my God, and strike, for we holti 

Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race ol 

venomous worms. 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 



II 



See what a lovely shell. 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine. 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 



The tiny cell is forlorn. 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 



Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand. 
Small, but a work divine. 
Frail, but of force to withstand. 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand ! 



Breton, not Briton ; here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 



MAUD 303 


Plagued willi a flitting to and fro, 


Am I guilty of blood ? 


A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 


However this may be, 


That never came from on high 


Comfort her, comfort her, all things 


Nor ever arose from below. 


good, 


But only moves with the moving eye, 


While I am over the sea ! 


Flying along the land and the main — 


Let me and my passionate love go by. 


Why should it look like Maud ? 


But speak to her all things holy and 


Am I to be overawed 


high, 


By what I cannot but know 


Whatever happen to me ! 


[s a juggle born of the brain ? 


Me and my harmful love go by ; 




But come to her waking, find her asleep, 


VI 


Powers of the height. Powers of the 


Back from the Breton coast. 


deep. 


Sick of a nameless fear. 


And comfort her tho' I die. 


Back to the dark sea-line 




Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 


Ill 


.\n old song vexes my ear ; 


Courage, poor heart of stone ! 
I will not ask thee why 


But that of Lamech is mine. 




Thou canst not understand 


VII 


That thou are left for ever alone : 


For years, a measureless ill, 


Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 


Vox years, for ever, to part — 


Or if I ask thee why, 


3ut she, she would love me still ; 


Care not thou to reply : 


And as long, O God, as she 


She is but dead, and the time is at hand 


iave a grain of love for me. 


When thou shalt more than die. 


50 long, no doubt, no doubt, 




ihall I nurse in my dark heart, 


IV 


lowever weary, a spark of will 




\'ot to be trampled out. 


I 




that 'twere possible 


VIII 


After long grief and pain 


Jtrange, that the mind, when fraught 


To find the arms of my true love 


Vith a passion so intense 


Round me once again ! 


)ne would think that it well 




'light drown all life in the eye, — 


II 


.^hat it should, by being so overwrought. 


When I was wont to meet her 


Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 


In the silent woody places 


i'^or a shell, or a flower, little things 


By the home that gave me birth. 


Vhich else would have been past by ! 


We stood tranced in long embraces 


>.nd now I remember, I, 


Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 


Vhen he lay dying there. 


Than anything on earth. 


noticed one of his many rings 




For he had many, poor worm) and 


Ill 


thought 


A shadow flits before me. 


t is his mother's hair. 


Not thou, but like to thee : 




Ah Christ, that it were possible 


IX 


For one short hour to see 


Vho knows if he be dead ? 


The souls we loved, that they might tell us 


Vliether I need have fled ? 


What and where they be. 



304 



MAUD 



IV 


VIII 




Get thee hence, nor come again. 


It leads me forth at evening, 


Mix not memory with doubt. 


It lightly winds and steals 


Pass, thou deathlike type of pain. 


In a cold white robe before me, 


Pass and cease to move about ! 


When all my spirit reels 


'Tis the blot upon the brain 


At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 


That wi/l show itself without. 


And the roaring of the wheels. 


IX 


V 


Then I rise, the eavedrops fall. 


Half the night I waste in sighs, 


And the yellow vapours choke 


Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 


The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 


For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 


On the misty river-tide. 


For the meeting of the morrow. 


X 


The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 


Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame, 




It crosses here, it crosses there, 


VI 


Thro' all that crowd confused and loud. 


'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 


The shadow still the same ; 


And a dewy splendour falls 


And on my heavy eyelids 


On the little flower that clings 


My anguish hangs like shame. 


To the turrets and the walls ; 




'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 


XI 


And the light and shadow fleet ; 


Alas for her that met me. 


She is walking in the meadow, 


That heard me softly call. 


And the woodland echo rings; 


Came glimmering thro' the laurels 


In a moment we shall meet ; 


At the quiet evenfall. 


She is singing in the meadow 


In the garden by the turrets 


And the rivulet at her feet 


Of the old manorial hall. 


Ripples on in light and shadow 




To the ballad that she sings. 


XII 




Would the happy spirit descend. 


VII 


From the realms of light and song. 




In the chamber or the street. 


Do I hear her sing as of old, 


As she looks among the blest. 


My bird with the shining head. 


Should I fear to greet my friend 


My own dove with the tender eye ? 


Or to say ' Forgive the WTong,' 


But there rings on a sudden a passionate 


Or to ask her, ' Take me, sweet, 


cry, 


To the regions of thy rest ' ? 


There is some one dying or dead. 




And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 


XIII 


For a tumult shakes the city. 


But the broad light glares and beats. 


And I wake, my dream is fled ; 


And the shadow flits and fleets 


In the shuddering dawn, behold. 


And will not let me be ; 


Without knowledge, without pity. 


And I loathe the squares and streets. 


By the curtains of my bed 


And the faces that one meets. 


That abiding phantom cold. 


Hearts with no love for me : 



MA UD 



305 



Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep, 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 



1 Dead, long dead. 
Long dead ! 

. And my heart is a handful of dust, 
And the wheels go over my head, 
And my bones are shaken with pain. 
For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street. 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat, 
Beat into my scalp and my brain. 
With never an end to the stream of passing 
,. feet, 

' 'Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
Clamour and rumble, and ringing and 

clatter. 
And here beneath it is all as bad, 
; For I thought the dead had peace, but it 
is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that 

not sad ? 
But up and down and to and fro, 
Rver about me the dead men go ; 
\n(l then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 

IL 

■Wretchedest age, since Time began, 
' ^hey cannot even bury a man ; 

\nd tho' we paid our tithes in the days 

that are gone, 
\ot a bell was rung, not a prayer was 

read ; 
i is that which makes us loud in the 

world of the dead ; 
^here is none that does his work, not 

one ; 
i. touch of their office might have 

sufficed, 
-ut the churchmen fain would kill their 

church, 
>s the churches have kill'd their Christ. 



Ill 

See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient — all for what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty 

head, 
And wheedle a world that loves him not, 
P'or it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood. 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public 

good. 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse. 
No, not to myself in the closet alone, 
But I heard it shouted at once from the 

top of the house ; 
Everything came to be known. 
Who told him we were there ? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came not 

back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where 

he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'er- 

grown whelp to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, 

and die. 

VI 

Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip. 
And curse me the British vermin, the rat ; 
I know not whether he came in the 

Hanover ship, 
But I know that he lies and listens mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and 

holes : 



3o6 



MAUD 



Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babes, 

poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 



Tell him now : she is standing here at my 

head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 
He may take her now ; for she never 

speaks her mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not ^p/us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world of 

the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



But I know where a garden grows. 
Fairer than aught in the world beside. 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season is 

good, 
To the sound of dancing music and flutes : 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits. 
And I almost fear they are not roses, but 

blood ; 
For the keeper was one, so full of pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral 

bride ; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 

brutes. 
Would he have that hole in his side? 



But what will the old man say ? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day ; 
Yet now I could even weep 

of it; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second 

the pit ? 

X 



to think 



corpse m 



Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low, 
That were a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
But the red life spilt for a private blow— 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



me, why have they not buried me deep 

enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough ? 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head 
And somebody, surely, some kind hear' 

will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. \\ 



PART III 
VI 



My life has crept so long on a broken wing 

Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 

That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing : 

My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 

When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 

And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer 

And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 

Over Orion's grave low down in the west. 

That like a silent lightning under the stars 

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, 






MA UD 307 



And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars- 
' And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 
Knowing I tarry for thee,' and pointed to Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast. 



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight 

To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, 

That had been in a weary world my one thing bright ; 

And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair 

When I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right. 

That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease. 

The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, 

Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionaire : 

No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 

Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, 

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, 

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore. 

And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 



And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew, 

' It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,' said I 

(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), 

' It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, 

That old hysterical mock-disease should die.' 

And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 

With a loyal people shouting a battle cry. 

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 



Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 

Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold. 

And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames. 

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 

And hail once more to the banner of battle unrolFd ! 

The' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 

For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims. 

Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar ; 

And many a darkness into the light shall leap. 

And shine in the sudden making of splendid names. 

And noble thought be freer under the sun. 

And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 

For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, 

And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep. 

And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames 

The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 



3o8 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind ; 
It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd. 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 

IN TWELVE BOOKS 
^ Flos Region Arthurus.' — Joseph of Exeter. 

DEDICATION 



These to His Memory — since he held 

them dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
These Idylls. 

And indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than my king's ideal knight, 
' Who reverenced his conscience as his 

king ; 
Whose glory was, redressinghuman wrong ; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd 

to it; 
Who loved one only and who clave to her — ' 
Her — over all whose realms to their last 

isle, 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent 

war, 
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse. 
Darkening the world. We have lost 

him : he is gone : 
We know him now : all narrow jealousies 
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved. 
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, 

wise. 
With what sublime repression of himself, 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 
Not making his high place the lawless 

perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of 

years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless 

life, 



Before a thousand peering littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a 

throne. 
And blackens every blot : for where is he, 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his ! 
Or how should England dreaming of his 

sons 
Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 
Laborious for her people and her poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 
Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, 
Beyond all titles, and a household name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, O woman's-heart, but still 

endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, ' 
Remembering all the beauty of that star * 
Which shone so close beside Thee that j 

ye made j 

One light together, but has past and leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendour. 

May all love,i 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadowThee,| 
The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee,; 
The love ofall Thy daughters cherish Thee.j 
The love ofall Thy people comfort Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side again \ 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



309 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other 

child ; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty king ere Arthur came 
Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war 
Each upon other, wasted all the land ; 
And still from time to time the heathen 

host 
Swarm'd overseas, and harried what was 

.. left. 
■^d so there grew great tracts of wilder- 
ness, 
Wherein the beast was ever more and 

more J 
''Gut man was less and less, till Arthur 

* came; *' 

For first Aureli us lived and fought and 

died, 
And after him King_yther fought and died. 
But either fail'd to make the kingdom 

one. 
And after these King Arthur for a space, 
And thro' the puissance of his Table 

Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under \ 

him. 
Their king and head, and made a realm, 

and reign'd. 

And thus the land of Cameliard was 
waste, 
[Thick with wet woods, and many a beast 
I - therein, 

lAnd none or few'' to scare or chase the 
\y' - beast ; 

loo that wild dog, and wolf and boar and 
\ bear 

I Came night and day, and rooted in the 
I fields, 

And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. 

And ever and anon the wolf would steal 
The children and devour, but now and 
; then. 

Her own brood lost or dead, lent her 
fierce teat 



To human sucklings ; and the children, 
housed 

In her foul den, there at their meat would 
growl. 

And mock their foster-mother on four feet. 

Till, straighten'd, they grew up to wolf- 
like men. 

Worse than the wolves. And King 
,'Teodogran 

Groan'd 'foYThe Roman legions here again. 

And Ccesar's eagle : then his brother king, 

Urien, assail'd him : last a heathen horde. 

Reddening the sun with smoke and earth 
with blood, 

And on the spike that split the mother's 
heart 

Spitting the child, brake on him, till, 

> amazed. 

He knew not whither he should turn for 

: aid. 

t" But — for he heard of Arthur newly 

crown'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by those 
Who cried, ' He is not Uther's son' — the 

King 
Sent to him, saying, ' Arise, and help us 
r thou ! 

^jox here between the man and beast we 
^ die.' 

And Arthur yet had done no deed of 

arms, 
But heard the call, and came : and 

Guinevere 
Stood by the castle walls to watch him 

pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or 

shield ■*' 

The golden symbol of his kinglihood, 
But rode a simple knight among his 

knights. 
And many of these in richer arms than he, 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she 

saw, 
One among many, tho' his face was bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he past, 
Felt the light of her eyes into his life 



3IO 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and 

pitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. Then he 

drave 
The heathen ; after, slew the beast, and 

fell'd 
The forest, letting in the sun, and made 
Broad pathways for the hunter and the 

knight 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger'd there, 
A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts 
Of those great Lords and Barons of his 

realm 
Flash'd forth and into war : for most of 

these, 
CoUeaguing with a score of petty kings, 
/Made head against him, crying, ' Who 
^ is he 

That he should rule us ? who hath proven 

him 
King Uther's son ? for lo ! we look at him. 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor 

voice. 
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. 
This is the son of Gorlois, not the King ; 
This is the son of Anton, not the King.' 

And Arthur, passing thence to battle, 

felt 
Travail, and throes and agonies of the life. 
Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere ; 
And thinking as he rode, ' Her father said 
That there between the man and beast 

they die. 
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side with 

me ? 
What happiness to reign a lonely king, 
Vext — O ye stars that shudder over me, 

earth that soundest hollow under me, 
Vext with waste dreams ? for saving I be 

join'd 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 

1 seem as nothing in the mighty world. 
And cannot will my will, nor work my 

work 
Wholly, nor make myself in mine own 
realm 



Victor and lord. But were I join'd with 

her. 
Then might we live together as one life, 
And reigning with one will in everything 
Have power on this dark land to lighten 

it, 
And power on this dead world to make 

it live.' 

Thereafter — as he speaks who tells the 

tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a field -of- battle 

bright 
With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the 

world 
Was all so clear about him, that he saw 
The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, 
And even in high day the morning star. 
So when the King had set his banner 

broad, 
At once from either side, with trumpet- 
blast, 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto 

blood, 
The long -lanced battle let their horses 

run. 
And now the Barons and the kings pre- 

vail'd, 
And now the King, as here and there 

that war 
Went swaying ; but the Powers who walk 

the world 
Made lightnings and great thunders over 

him. 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main 

might, 
And mightier of his hands with every 

blow. 
And leading all his knighthood threw the 

kings 
Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudias, and Clariance of Northumber- 
land, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, 
' And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice 
x\s dreadful as the shout of one who sees 
To one who sins, and deems himself alone 
And all the world asleep, they swerved 

and brake 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



3" 



Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the 

brands 
' That hack'd among the flyers, ' Ho ! they 

yield ! ' 
So like a painted battle the war stood \- 
Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, . - 
And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. 
Helaugh'd upon his warrior whom he loved 
And honour'd most. 'Thou dost not 

doubt me King, 
So well thine arm hath wrought for me 

to-day.' 
'Sir and my liege,' he cried, * the fire of 
1 God '-f':-,\^,; 

[Descends upon thee in the battle-field : 
'l know thee for my King ! ' AVhereat the 

two. 
For each had warded either in the fight, 
jSware on the field of death a deathless 

love. 
And Arthur said, 'Man's word is God in 

man : <-^ 
Let chance what will, I trust thee to the 

death.' \ 

Then quickly from the foughten field 

he sent 
lUlfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leodo- 

gran, 
.Saying, ' If I in aught have served thee 
I well, 

iGive me thy daughter Guinevere to wife. ' 

: Whom when he heard, Leodogran in 

heart 
Debating — ' How should I that am a 

; ki"g. 

jHowever much he holp me at my need, 
•Give my one daughter saving to a king. 
And a king's son ? ' — lifted his voice, and^ 

call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom 
He trusted all things, and of him required 
His counsel : • Knowest thou aught of 

Arthur's birth ? ' 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain and 
said, 
' Sir King, there be but two old men that 
know : 



And each is twice as old as I ; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served 
King Uther thro' his magic art ; and one 
Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, 
Who taught him magic ; but the scholar 

ran 
Before the master, and so far, that Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and 

wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, where after-years 
Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth.' 

To whom the King Leodogran replied, 
/Q. friend, had I been holpen half as well 
^y this King Arthur as by thee to-day. 
Then beast and man had had their share 

of me : 
But summon here before us yet once more 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.' 

Then, when they came before him, the 
King said, 

' I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser 
fowl. 

And reason in the chase : but wherefore 
now 

Do these your lords stir up the heat of 
war, 

Some calling Arthur born of Gorlois, 

Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye your- 
selves. 

Hold ye this Arthur fi)r King Uther's son ? ' 

And Ulfius and Brastias answer'd, 'Ay.' 

^»^ien Bedivere, the first of all his knights 

Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, 

spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word was 

he. 
Whenever slander breathed against the 
King— 

' Sir, there be many rumours on this 

head : 
For there be those who hate him in their 

hearts, 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways are 

sweet, 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less than 

man : 



312 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



And there be those who deem him more 

than man, 
And dream he dropt from heaven : but 

my beUef . 
In all this matter — so ye care to learn — 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's 

time 
The prince and warrior Gorlo'is, he that? 

held _ ;■■' 

Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea^ ^. 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, ^^gernej'^ 
And daughters had she borne him, — one 

whereof, 
'^Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Belli- 

cent, 
Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 
To Arthur, — but a son she had not borne. 
And Uther cast upon her eyes of love : 
But she, a stainless wife to Gorlois, 
So loathed the bright dishonour of his 

love. 
That Gorlois and King Uther went to war : 
And overthrown was Gorlois and slain. 
Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged 
Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men, 
Seeing the mighty swarm about their 

walls, 
^^^eft her and fled, and Uther enter'd in, 
And there was none to call to but himself. 
So, compass'd by the power of the King, 
Enforced she was to wed him in her tears, 
And with a shameful swiftness : after- 
ward, 
Not many moons, King Uther died him- 
self. 
Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule 
After him, lest the realm should go to 

wrack, 
[.nd that same night, the night of the new 

year, 
By reason of the bitterness and grief 
That vext his mother, all before his time 
Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born 
Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate 
To Merlin, to be holden far apart 
Until his hour should come ; because the 

lords 
Of that fierce day were as the lords of this, 
Wild beasts, and surely would have torn 

the child 



Piecemeal among them, had they known ; 

for each 
But sought to rule for his own self and 

hand. 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took t^e 

child, 
^>A.nd gave him to Sir Antop, an old knight 
And ancient friend of Uther ; and his wife 
Nursed the young prince, and rear'd hifta 

with her own ; v^ 

And no man knew. And ever since the 

lords 
Have foughten like wild beasts among 

themselves. 
So that the realm has gone to wrack : 

but now. 
This year, when Merlin (for his hour had 

come) 
Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the 

hall. 
Proclaiming, " Here is Uther's heir, your 

king," 
A hundred voices cried, "Away with him.' 
No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois he. 
Or else the child of Anton, and no king. 
Or else baseborn." Yet Merlin thro' his 

craft, 
And while the people clamour'd for a king, 
Had Arthur crown'd ; but after, the great 

lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open war.' 

Then while the King debated with 

himself 
If Arthur were the child of shamefulness, 
Or born the son of Gorlois, after death. 
Or Uther's son, and born before his \ 

time, 
Or whether there were truth in anything 
Sai^-by these three, there came to Came- ( 
/ Hard, i 

^With Gawain and young Ivlodred, her two \ 

sons, _ ! 

Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Belli- i 

cent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, the 

King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at 

meat 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



313 



< A doubtful throne is ice on summer 

seas. 
Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his 

men 
Report him ! Yea, but ye — think ye this 

king- 
So many those that hate him, and so 

strong, 
So few his knights, however brave thcv 

be— 
Hath body enow to hold his foemen 

clown ? ' 

*0 King,' she cried, 'and I will tell 

thee : few. 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind with 

him ; 
For I was near him when the savage yells 
Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat 
iCrown'd on the dais, and his warriors 
1 cried, 

I" Be thou the king, and we will work thy 

will 
ho love thee." Then the King in low 

deep tones, 
A.nd simple words of great authority, 
Bound them by so strait vows to his own 

self, 
jThat when they rose, knighted from 
I kneeling, some 

Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, 
Dome flush'd, and others dazed, as one 

who wakes \ 

^alf-blinded at the coming of a light. 



But when he spake and cheer'd his 

Table Round 
tVith large, divine, and comfortable words, 
]3eyond my tongue to tell thee — I beheld 
l.nom eye to eye thro' all their Order flash 
\ momentary likeness of the King : 
i\nd ere it left their faces, thro' the cross 
i\nd those around it and the Crucified, 
pown from the casement over Arthur, 
I smote 

plame- colour, vert and azure, in three 
I rays, 

!^ne falling upon each of three fair queens, 
'■'Vho stood in silence near his throne, the 

friends 



Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his 
need. 

^^ ' And there I saw mage Merlin, whose 

vast wit 
And hundred winters are but as the hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

' And near him stood the Lady of the 

Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his 

own- 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- 
ful. 
She gave the King his huge cross-hilted 

sword. 
Whereby to drive the heathen out : a mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, and her face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster 

gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy 

hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep ; calm, whatsoever storms 
May shake the world, and when the 

surface rolls, 
Hath power to walk the waters like our 

Lord. 

' There likewise I beheld Excalibur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the 

sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the lake, 
And Arthur row'd across and took it — rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt. 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade so 

bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one side. 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this 

world, 
"Take me," but turn the blade and ye 

shall see. 
And written in the speech ye speak your- 
self, 
" Cast me away ! " And sad was Arthur's 

face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counsell'd him, 
' ' Take thou and strike ! the time to cast 

away 



314 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



Is yet far-off." So this great brand the 

king 
Took, and by this will beat his foemen 

down.' 

Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but 

thought 
To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd, 
Plxing full eyes of question on her face, 
' The swallow and the swift are near akin, 
But thou art closer to this noble prince, 
Being his own dear sister ' ; and she said, 
' Daughter of Gorloi's and Ygerne am I ' ; 
' And therefore Arthur's sister ? ' ask'd 

the King. 
She answer'd, ' These be secret things, ' 

and sign'd 
To those two sons to pass, and let them be. 
And Gawain went, and breaking into song 
Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying hair 
Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw : 
But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, 
And there half- heard ; the same that 

afterward 
Struck for the throne, and striking found 

his doom. 

And then the Queen made answer, 

' What know I ? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair. 
And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and dark 
Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther too, 
Wellnigh to blackness ; but this King is 

fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of men. 
Moreover, always in my mind I hear 
A cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear her say, 
" O that ye had some brother, pretty one, 
To guard thee on the rough ways of the 

world."' 

'Ay,' said the King, 'and hear ye 
such a cry ? 
But when did Arthur chance upon thee 
first ? ' 

' O King ! ' she cried, ' and I will tell 
thee true : 
He found me first when yet a little maid : 
Beaten I had been for a little fault 



Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of 

heath, 
And hated this fair world and ail therein, 
And wept, and wish'd that I were dead ; 

and he — 
I know not whether of himself he came, 
Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, 

can walk 
Unseen at pleasure — he was at my side, 
And spake sweet words, and comforted 

my heart. 
And dried my tears, being a child with me. 
And many a time he came, and evermore 
As I grew greater grew with me ; and sad 
At times he seem'd, and sad with him 

was I, 
Stern too at times, and then I loved him 

not. 
But sweet again, and then I loved him 

well. 
And now of late I see him less and less, 
But those first days had golden hours for 

me. 
For then I surely thought he would be 

king. 

' But let me tell thee now another tale : 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they 

say. 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, 
To hear him speak before he left his life. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the 

mage ; 
x\nd when I enter'd told me that himself 
And Merlin ever served about the King, 
Uther, before he died ; and on the night 
When Uther in Tintagil past away 
Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two 
Left the still King, and passing forth to 

breathe, 
Then from the castle gateway by the 

chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — a 

night 
In which the bounds of heaven and earth 

were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape 

thereof 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



315 



IV dragon wing'd, and all from stem to 
i[ stern 

kight with a shining people on the decks, 
\nd gone as soon as seen. And then 

the two 
)ropt to the cove, and watch'd the great 

sea fall, 
Vave after wave, each mightier than the 

last, 
111 last, a ninth one, gathering half the 

deep 
\xA full of voices, slowly rose and plunged 
Soaring, and all the wave was in a flame : 
^nd down the wave and in the flame was 

borne 
L naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, 
Vho stoopt and caught the babe, and 

cried ' ' The King ! 
lere is an heir for Uther ! " And the 

fringe 
)f that great breaker, sweeping up the 

strand, 
:/ash'd at the wizard as he spake the word, 
Vnd all at once all round him rose in fire, 
othat the child and he were clothed in fire. 
Lnd presently thereafter follow'd calm, 
'ree sky and stars: "And this same 

child," he said. 
Is he who reigns ; nor could I part in 

peace 
'ill this were told." And sayii"ig this the 
I seer 

Iv^ent thro' the strait and dreadful pass of 
; death, 

|Iot ever to be question'd any more 
jave on the further side ; but when I met 
llerlin, and ask'd him if these things were 
; truth— 

''he shining dragon and the naked child 
)escending in the glory of the seas — 
lelaugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd me 
|a riddling triplets of old time, and said : 

* " Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in 
! the sky ! 

•l young man will be wiser by and by ; 
^.n old man's wit may wander ere he die. 
\ Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on the 
\ lea! 

Lnd truth is this to me, and that to thee ; 



And truth or clothed or naked let it be. 
Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free 

blossom blows : 
Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he 

who knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep 

he goes." 

' So Merlin riddling anger'd me ; but 

thou 
Fear not to give this King thine only child, 
Guinevere : so great bards of him will sing 
Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of old 
Ranging and ringing thro' the minds of 

men, 
And echo'd by old folk beside their fires 
For comfort after their wage-work is done. 
Speak of the King ; and Merlin in our 

time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn 
Tho' men may wound him that he will 

not die, 
But pass, again to come ; and then or now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 
Till these and all men hail him for their 

king.' 

She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, 
But musing ' Shall I answer yea or nay?' 
Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, 

and saw. 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, 
Field after field, up to a height, the peak 
Haze -hidden, and thereon a phantom 

king. 
Now looming, and now lost ; and on the 

slope 
The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd 

was driven. 
Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from 

roof and rick. 
In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, 
Stream'd to the peak, and mingled with 

the haze 
And made it thicker ; v/hile the phantom 

king 
Sent out at times a voice ; and here or there 
Stood one who pointed toward the voice, 

the rest 
Slew on and burnt, crying, ' No king of 

ours. 



3i6 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



No son of Uther, and no king of ours ' ; 
Till with a wink his dream was changed, 

the haze 
Descended, and the solid earth became 
As nothing, but the King stood out in 

heaven, 
Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and 

i sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, 
Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior whom 

he loved 
And honour'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride 

forth 
And bring the Queen ; — and watch'd him 

from ^e gates : 
And Lancelot past away among the 

flowers, s. i 

(For then was latter Apriljf and return'd 
Among the flowers, in May, with Guine- 

vei-e. \y 

To whom arrived, by Dubric the high 

saint, 
Chief of the church in Britain, and before 
The stateliest of her altar - shrines, the 

King 
That morn was married, while in stainless 

white, 
The fair beginners of a nobler time. 
And glorying in their vows and him, his 

knights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his joy. 
Far shone the fields of May thro' open 

door, 
The sacred altar blossom'd white with May, 
The Sun of May descended on their King, 
They gazed on all earth's beauty in their 

Queen, 
Roll'd incense, and there past along the 

hymns 
A voice as of the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless 

love : 
And Arthur said, ' Behold, thy doom is 

mine. 
Let chance what will, I love thee to the 

death ! ' 
To whom the Queen replied with drooping 

eyes, 



' King and my lord, I love thee to the 

death ! ' 
And holy Dubric spread his hands and 

spake, 
' Reign ye, and live and love, and make 

the world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one witl-^ 

thee. 
And all this Order of thy Table Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of theiij 

King ! ' 

So Dubric said ; but when they left the! 

shrine' j 

Great Lords from Rome before the portal 

k^' stood, 
n scornful stillness gazing as they past ; j 
Then while they paced a city all on fire 
With sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets 

blew. 
And Arthur's knighthood sang before tht , 
King :— 

' Blow trumpet, for the world is whit«l 

with May ; 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath roU'c'i 

away ! 
Blow thro' the living world — "Let tht 

King reign." 

' Shall Rome or Heathen rule ir! 

Arthur's realm ? 
Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe uporj 

helm, 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the 

King reign. 

' Strike for the King and live ! hi.; 

knights have heard 

That God hath told the King a secre" 

word. 

Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let th^ 
King reign. ' 

I 

' Blow trumpet ! he will lift us froni 
the dust. \ 

Blow trumpet ! live the strength and di'. 
the lust ! 

Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Le 
the King reign. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



317 



* Strike for the King and die ! and if But Arthur spake, ' Behold, for these have 

thou diest, 
ihe King is King, and ever wills the 

highest. 
lang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let 

the King reign. 



* Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his 

May ! 
low, for our Sun is mightier day by day ! 
'lang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let 
the King reign. 

The King will follow Christ, and we 

the King 
1 whom high God hath breathed a secret 

thing. 
all battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the 

King reign.' 

So sang the knighthood, moving to their 

hall. 
here at the banquet those gi-eat Lords 

from Rome, 
he slowly-fading mistress of the world. 



sworn 
To wage my wars, and worship me their 

King ; 
The old order change th, yielding place 

to new ; 
And we that fight for our fair father 

Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and 

old 
To drive the heathen from your Roman 

wall. 
No tribute will we pay ' : so those great 

lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove 

with Rome. 

And Arthur and his knighthood for a 
space 
Were all one will, and thro' that strength 

the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under him. 
Fought, and in twelve great battles over- 
came 



trode in, and claim'd their tribute as of^/^he heathen hordes, and made a reah 
yore. \ and reign'd. 

THE ROUND TABLE 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 
THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 
GERAINT AND ENID. 
BALIN AND BALAN. 
MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



/^G 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 

HE last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 
nd tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring 
tared at the spate. A slender-shafted 

Pine 

|ost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd away. 
How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as 
I a false knight 

r evil king before my lance if lance 
rere mine to use — O senseless cataract, 
isaring all down in thy precipitancy— 
Ind yet thou art but swollen v/ith cold 
j snows 

!ind mine is living blood : thoii dost His 

will, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 
THE HOLY GRAIL. 
PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 
THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 
GUINEVERE. 

The Maker's, and not knowest, and I 

that know, 
Have strength and wit, in my good 

mother's hall 
Linger with vacillating obedience, 
Prison'd, and kept and coax'd and 

whistled to — 
Since the good mother holds me still a 

child ! 
Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 
A worse were better ; yet no worse 

would I. 
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put 

force 
To weary her ears with one continuous 

prayer. 



3i8 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



Until she let me fly discaged to sweep 

In ever-highering eagle-circles up 

To the great Sun of Glory, and thence 

swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash 

them dead, 
A knight of Arthur, working out his will, 
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, 

when he came 
With Modred hither in the summertime, 
Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven 

knight. 
Modred for want of worthier was the 

judge. 
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he 

said, 
" Thou hast half prevail'd against me," 

said so — he— 
Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was mute, 
P'or he is alway sullen : what care I ? ' 

And Gareth went, and hovering round 

her chair 
Ask'd, ' Mother, tho' ye count me still 

the child, 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? ' 

She laugh'd, 
' Thou art but a wild-goose to question 

it.' 
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he 

said, 
' Being a goose and rather tame than wild, 
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well- 
beloved, 
An 'twere but of the goose and golden 

eggs.' 

And Gareth answer'd her with kindling 

eyes, 
' Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of 

mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can lay ; 
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm 
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round the 

palm 
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw 
The splendour sparkling from aloft, and 

thought 



"An I could climb and lay my hand upon 
it, 

Then were I wealthier than a leash of 
kings." 

But ever when he reach'd a hand to climb, 

One, that had loved him from his child- 
hood, caught 

And stay'd him, "Climb not lest thou 
break thy neck, 

I charge thee by my love," and so the boy, 

Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake 
his neck. 

But brake his very heart in pining for it, 

And past away.' 

To whom the mother said, 
' True love, sweet son, had risk'd himself 

and climb'd, 
And handed down the golden treasure to 

him.' 

And Gareth answer'd her with kindling 

eyes, 
'Gold? said I gold? — ay then, why he, 

or she, ij 

Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world " 
Had ventured — had the thing I spake of 

been 
Mere gold — but this was all of that true 

steel, 
Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur. 
And lightnings play'd about it in tht 

storm. 
And all the little fowl were flurried at it. 
And there were cries and clashings in tht 

nest, 
That sent him from his senses : let me go. 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself ane 

said, 
' Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the heartl 
Lies like a log, and all but smoulder"< 

out ! 
For ever since when traitor to the King 
He fought against him in the Barons' war 
And Arthur gave him back his territory, 
His age hath slowly droopt, and now lie 

there 
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



319 



No more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, 

nor knows. 
A.nd both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, 
\lbeit neither loved with that full love 
: feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : 
5tay therefore thou ; red berries charm 

the bird, 
Vnd thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the 

wars, 
.Vho never knewest finger-ache, nor pang 
)f wrench'd or broken limb — an often 

chance 
w those brain -stunning shocks, and 

tourney-falls, 
•"rights to my heart ; but stay : follow 

the deer 
3y these tall firs and our fast-falling burns ; 
)0 make thy manhood mightier day by 

day ; 
nveet is the chase : and I will seek thee 

out 
)0me comfortable bride and fair, to grace 
"hy climbing life, and cherish my prone 
; year, 

^ill falling into Lot's forgetfulness 
know not thee, myself, nor anything, 
itay, my best son ! ye are yet more boy 

than man.' 

Then Gareth, ' An ye hold me yet for 

child, 
llear yet once more the story of the child, 
'or, mother, there was once a King, like 

ours, 
rhe prince his heir, when tall and 

marriageable, 
isk'd for a bride ; and thereupon the 
i King 

jet two before him. One was fair, 
I strong, arm'd — 

i»ut to be won by force — and many men 
')esired her ; one, good lack, no man 

desired. 
>.nd these were the conditions of the 

King : 
'hat save he won the first by force, he 

needs 
lust wed that other, whom no man 

desired, 
>- red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, 



That evermore she long'd to hide herself. 
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye — 
Yea — some she cleaved to, but they died 

of her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame ; and 

one, — O Mother, 
How can ye keep me tether'd to you — 

Shame. 
Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. 
Follow the deer } follow the Christ, the 

King, 
I^ive pure, speak true, right wrong, follow 

the King — 
Else, wherefore born ? ' 

To whom the mother said, 
' Sweet son, for there be many who deem 

him not, 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven 

King— 
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him 

King, 
When I was frequent with him in my 

youth. 
And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted 

him 
No more than he, himself; but felt him 

mine, 
Of closest kin to me : yet — wilt thou leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine 

all, 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven 

King ? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round his 

birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.' 

And Gareth answer'd quickly, ' Not 

an hour. 
So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' 

fire, 
Mother, to gain it — your full leave to 

go- 
Not proven, who swept the dust of ruin'd 

Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, and 

crush'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people free ? 
Who should be King save him who 

makes us free ? ' 



320 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



So when the Queen, who long had 

sought in vain 
To break him from the intent to which 

he grew, 
Found her son's will unwaveringly one, 
She answer'd craftily, ' Will ye walk thro' 

fire? 
Who walks thro' fire will hardly heed the 

smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must : only one proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make thee 

knight, 
Of thine obedience and thy love to me, 
Thy mother, — I demand.' 

And Gareth cried, 
' A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me to 
the quick ! ' 

But slowly spake the mother looking 
at him, 

' Prince, thou shalt go disguised to 
Arthur's hall, 

And hire thyself to serve for meats and 
drinks 

Among the scullions and the kitchen- 
knaves, 

And those that hand the dish across the 
bar. 

Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone. 

And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and 
a day.' 

For so the Queen believed that when 
her son 
Beheld his only way to glory lead 
Low down thro' villain kitchen-vassalage, 
Her own true Gareth was too princely- 
proud 
To pass thereby ; so should he rest with 

her, 
Closed in her castle from the sound of 
arms. 

Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, 
' The thrall in person may be free in soul, 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, 
And since thou art my mother, must 

obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will ; 



For hence will I, disguised, and hire my- 
self 

To serve with scullions and with kitchen- 
knaves ; 

Nor tell my name to any — no, not the 
King.' 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The mother's 

eye 
Full of the wistful fear that he would go, 
And turning toward him wheresoe'er he 

turn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, 
When waken'd by the wind which with 

full voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on tO; 

dawn, I 

He rose, and out of slumber calling two ' 
That still had tended on him from his 

birth. 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, 

went. 

The three were clad like tillers of the 

soil. 
Southward they set their faces. The birds 

made 
Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. 
The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd into 

green. 
And the live green had kindled into 

flowers. 
For it was past the time of Easterday. 

So, when their feet were planted on 

the plain 
That broaden'd toward the base of Came 

lot, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
Rolling her smoke about the Roya' 

mount. 
That rose between the forest and the field. 
At times the summit of the high cit;, 

flash'd ; 
At times the spires and turrets half-wa;\ 

down 
Prick'd thro' the mist ; at times the grea 

gate shone 
Only, that open'd on the field below : 
Anon, the whole fair city had disappear'tl 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



321 



Then those who went with Gareth were 
amazed, 
One crying, ' Let us go no further, lord. 
Here is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy Kings.' The second echo'd him, 

* Lord, we have heard from our wise man 

at home 
To Northward, that this King is not the 

King, 
But only changeling out of Fairyland, 
Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery 
And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first 

again, ^ 

* Lord, there is no such city anywhere, 
But all a vision.' 

( Gareth answer'd them 

[With laughter, swearing he had glamour 

\ enow 

•In his own blood, his princedom, youth 
and hopes, 

iFo plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea ; 

J5o push'd them all unwilling toward the 

; gate. 

\nd there was no gate like it under 

heaven, 
"or barefoot on the keystone, which was 
lined 

And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave. 
The Lady of the Lake stood : all her dress 

'Vept from her sides as water flowing away ; 

3ut like the cross her great and goodly 

[ arms 

r)tretch'd under all the cornice and 

j upheld : 

iVnd drops of water fell from either hand ; 

l\.nd down from one a sword was hung, 

from one 
\ censer, either worn with wind and 

storm ; 
ind o'er her breast floated the sacred fish ; 
ind in the space to left of her, and right, 
Vere Arthur's wars in weird devices done, 
|/ew things and old co-twisted, as if Time 
is^'ere nothing, so inveterately, that men 
(/"ere giddy gazing there ; and over all 
iligh on the top were those three Queens, 
1 the friends 

1 Iff Arthur, who should help him at his 
need. 



Then those with Gareth for so long a 

space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish emblem- 

ings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and curl : 

they call'd 
To Gareth, ' Lord, the gateway is alive.' 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt his 

eyes 
So long, that ev'n to him they seem'd to 

move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, to 

whom 
From out thereunder came an ancient 

man, 
Long-bearded, saying, ' Who be ye, my 

sons ? ' 

Then Gareth, ' We be tillers of the soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow come to see 
The glories of our King : but these, my 

men, 
(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist) 
Doubt if the King be King at all, or come 
From Fairyland ; and whether this be built 
By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens ; 
Or whether there be any city at all. 
Or all a vision : and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou 

these the truth.' 

Then that old Seer made answer play- 
ing on him 

And saying, ' Son, I have seen the good 
ship sail 

Keel upward, and mast downward, in 
the heavens, 

And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air : 

And here is truth ; but an it please thee 
not. 

Take thou the truth as thou hast told it 
me. 

For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King 

And Fairy Queens have built the city, son ; 

They came from out a sacred mountain- 
cleft 

Toward the sunrise, each with harp in 
hand, 

Y 



322 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



And built it to the music of their harps. 
And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son. 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 
Saving the King ; tho' some there be that 

hold 
The King a shadow, and the city real : 
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou 

pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou 

become 
A thrall to his enchantments, for the King 
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet the 

which 
No man can keep ; but, so thou dread to 

swear, 
Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide 
Without, among the cattle of the field. 
For an ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city is 

built 
To music, therefore never built at all, 
And therefore built for ever. ' 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd, ' Old Master, reverence thine 

own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, and 

seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall I 
Why mockest thou the stranger that hath 

been 
To thee fair-spoken ? ' 

But the Seer replied, 
' Know ye not then the Riddling of the 

Bards ? 
"Confusion, and illusion, and relation, 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion " ? 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou 

art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie, ' 

Unmockingly the mocker ending her^ 
Turn'd to the right, and past along the 

plain ; 
Whom Gareth looking after said, ' My 



Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 
Here on the threshold of our enterprise. 
Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I : 
Well, we will make amends.' 

With all good cheer 
He spake and laugh'd, then enter'd with 

his twain 
Camejot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And stately, rich in emblem and the work 
Of ancient kings who did their days in 

stone ; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at 

Arthur's court. 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and every- 
where 
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening 

peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire to 

heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his arms 
Clash'd ; and the sound was good to 

Gareth's ear. 
And out of bower and casement shyly 

glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of 

love ; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending heard 
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld 
Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall 
The splendour of the presence of the 

King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and 

look'd no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering in hi' 

ears, 
And thought, ' For this half-shadow of ; 

lie 
The truthful King will doom me when 1 

speak.' 
Yet pressing on, tho' all in fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 
Of those tall knights, that ranged abou 

the throne. 
Clear honour shining like the dewy star 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



323 



Of dawn, and faith in their great King, 

with pure 
Affection, and the Hght of victory, 
And glory gain'd, and evermore to gain. 

Then came a widow crying to the King, 
* A boon, Sir King ! Thy father, Uther, 

reft 
From my dead lord a field with violence : 
For howsoe'er at first he proffer'd gold. 
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes. 
We yielded not ; and then he reft us of it 
^Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.' 

I Said Arthur, * ^Vhether would ye ? 

gold or field ? ' 
To whom the woman weeping, ' Nay, my 

lord, 
,rhe field was pleasant in my husband's 

eye. ' 

And Arthur, ' Have thy pleasant field 

again, 
Vnd thrice the gold for Uther's use 

thereof, 
iVccording to the years. No boon is here, 
iut justice, so thy say be proven true. 
iVccursed, who from the wrongs his father 

did 
Vould shape himself a right ! ' 

And while she past, 
lame yet another widow crying to him, 
I A boon, Sir King ! Thine enemy, King, 
! am I. 

Nith thine own hand thou slewest my 
i dear lord, 

l knight of Uther in the Barons' war, 
V^hen Lot and many another rose and 

fought 
gainst thee, saying thou weft basely 

born, 
held with these, and loathe to ask thee 
i aught. 

,et lo ! my husband's brother had my 
! son 

hrall'd in his castle, and hath starved 

him dead ; 
ind standeth seized of that inheritance 
Inch thou that slewest the sire hast left 
the son. 



So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for hate. 
Grant me some knight to do the battle 

for me, 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my 

son.' 

Then strode a good knight forward, 
crying to him, 
' A boon. Sir King ! I am her kinsman, I. 
Give me to right her wrong, and slay the 
man.' 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and 

cried, 
' A boon. Sir King ! ev'n that thou grant 

her none. 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in full 

hail- 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve 

and gag.' 

But Arthur, ' We sit King, to help the 

wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves 

her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and 

hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to the 

flames, 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee 

dead. 
And Uther slit thy tongue : but get thee 

hence — 
Lest that rough humour of the kings of 

old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her kin. 
Go likewise ; lay him low and slay him 

not. 
But bring him here, that I may judge the 

right, 
According to the justice of the King : 
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King 
Who lived and died for men, the man 

shall die.' 

Then came in hall the messenger of 

Mark, 
A name of evil savour in the land. 
The Cornish king. In either hand he 

bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as 

shines 



324 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



A field of charlock in the sudden sun 
Between two showers, a cloth of palest 

gold, 
Which down he laid before the throne, 

and knelt, 
Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king, 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; 
For having heard that Arthur of his grace 
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, 

knight. 
And, for himself was of the greater state, 
Being a king, he trusted his Uege-lord 
Would }'ield him this large honour all the 

more ; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth of 

gold. 
In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to 

rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. 'The 

goodly knight ! 
What ! shall the shield of Mark stand 

among these ? ' 
For, midway down the side of that long 

hall 
A stately pile, — whereof along the front, 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and 

some blank. 
There ran a treble range of stony 

shields, — 
Rose, and high -arching overbrow'd the 

hearth. 
And under every shield a knight was 

named : 
For this was Arthur's custom in his hall ; 
When some good knight had done one 

noble deed, 
His arms were carven only ; but if twain 
His arms were blazon'd also ; but if none. 
The shield was blank and bare without a 

sign 
Saving the name beneath ; and Gareth 

saw 
The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and 

bright. 
And Modred's blank as death ; and 

Arthur cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 



' More like are we to reave him of his 

crown 
Than make him knight because men call 

him king. 
The kings we found, ye know we stay'd 

their hands 
From war among themselves, but left 

them kings ; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, 
Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them 

we enroU'd 
Among us, and they sit within our hall. 
But Mark hath tarnish'd the great name j 

of king. 
As Mark would sully the low state of churl : j 
And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, j' 
Return, and meet, and hold him from | 

our eyes. 
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, 
Silenced for ever — craven — a man of 

plots. 
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside am- 

bushings — 
No fault of thine : let Kay the seneschal 
Look to thy wants, and send thee satis- 
fied- 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand 

be seen ! ' 

And many another suppliant crying 

came 
With noise of ravage wrought by beast 

and man. 
And evermore a knight would ride away. 

Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavil} 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, hi^ 

men. 
Approach' d between them toward the 

King, and ask'd, 
' A boon. Sir King (his voice was all 

ashamed). 
For see ye not how weak and hungerworn 
I seem — leaning on these ? grant me tQ>« 

serve ; " 

For meat and drink among thy kitchen- 

knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek ni) 

name. 
Hereafter I will fight.' 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



325 



To him the King, 
*A goodly youth and worth a goodHer 

boon ! 
But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must 

Kay, 
The master of the meats and drmks, be 

thine.' 
He rose and past ; then Kay, a man 

of mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself 
Root -bitten by white lichen, 

' Lo ye now ! 
This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, 

where, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow. 
However that might chance ! but an he 

work, 
'Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, 
And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.' 

Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, 

and all the hounds ; 
A. horse thou knowest, a man thou dost 
I not know : 

Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, 
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and 

hands 
..arge, fair and fine ! — Some young lad's 

mystery — 
;But, or fromsheepcotor king's hall, the boy 
lS noble-natured. Treat him with all 
i grace, 

jL,est he should come to shame thy judging 
' of him. ' 

Then Kay, * What murmurest thou of 
mystery ? 
i'hink ye this fellow will poison the 
; King's dish ? 

i^ay, for he spake too fool-like : mystery ! 
"ut, an the lad were noble, he had ask'd 
'or horse and armour : fair and fine, 

forsooth ! 
ir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands ? but see 

thou to it 
hat thine own fineness, Lancelot, some 

fine day 
ndo thee not — and leave my man to me.' 



So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage ; 
Ate with young lads his portion by the 

door, 
And couch'd at night with grimy kitchen- 
knaves. 
And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, 
But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not, 
Would hustle and harry him, and labour 

him 
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set 
To turn the broach, draw water, or hew 

wood, 
Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd 

himself 
With all obedience to the King, and 

wrought 
All kind of service with a noble ease 
That graced the lowliest act in doing it. 
And when the thralls had talk among 

themselves, 
And one would praise the love that linkt 

the King 
And Lancelot — how the King had saved 

his life 
\\\ battle twice, and Lancelot once the 

King's — 
For Lancelot was the first in Tournament, 
But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field — 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other told. 
How once the wandering forester at dawn, 
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King, 
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 
' He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd and cannot die ' — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk were 

foul, 
Then would he whistle rapid as any lark. 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud 
That first they mock'd, but, after, rever- 
enced him. 
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale 
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling 

way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, held 
All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good mates 
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 
Charm'd ; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, 
would come 



326 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them all 

apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among 

themselves, 
So there were any trial of mastery, 
He, by two yards in casting bar or stone 
Was counted best ; and if there chanced 

a joust. 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go. 
Would hurry thither, and when he saw 

the knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring wave. 
And the spear spring, and good horse 

reel, the boy 
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought among the 

thralls ; 
But in the weeks that follow'd, the good 

Queen, 
Repentant of the word she made him 

swear, 
And saddening in her childless castle, sent, 
Between the in-crescent and de-crescent 

moon, 
Arms for her son, and loosed him from 

his vow. 

This, Gareth hearing from a squire of 

Lot 
With whom he used to play at tourney 

once. 
When both were children, and in lonely 

haunts 
Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand. 
And each at either dash from either end — 
Shame never made girl redder than Gareth 

joy. 
He laugh'd ; he sprang. ' Out of the 

smoke, at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — nay, 

the King's — 
Descend into the city ' : whereon he sought 
The King alone, and found, and told him 

all. 

' I have stagger'd thy strong Gawain in 
a tilt 
For pastime ; yea, he said it : joust can I. 



Make me thy knight — in secret ! let my 

name 
Be hidd'n, and give me the first quest, I 

spring 
Like flame from ashes.' 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made him flush, 

and bow j 

Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'dj 

him, 
' Son, the good mother let me know thee 

here, j 

And sent her wish that I would yield theej 

thine. 
Make thee my knight? my knights are 

sworn to vows ' 

Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness. 
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, 
And uttermost obedience to the King.' 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from 

his knees, 
' My King, for hardihood I can promise 

thee. 
For uttermost obedience make demand 
Of whom ye ^zv^ me to, the Seneschal, 
No mellow master of the meats and 

drinks ! 
And as for love, God wot, I love not yetj 
But love I shall, God willing.' 

And the King— 
' Make thee my knight in secret ? yea, 

but he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest man 
And one with me in all, he needs mu? 

know.' 

' Let Lancelot know, my King, le 
Lancelot know. 
Thy noblest and thy truest ! ' 

And the King-' 
' But wherefore would ye men shouli 

wonder at you ? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, thei 

King' . ^ , 

And the deed's sake my knighthood d 

the deed, 
Than to be noised of.' 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



327 



Merrily Gareth ask'd, 
* Have I not earn'd rrty cake in baking 

of it? 
Let be my name until I make my name ! 
My deeds will speak : it is but for a day.' 
So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm 
, Smiled the great King, and half-un will- 
ingly 
Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to 

him. 
Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, 
' I have given him the first quest : he is 

not proven. 
Look therefore when he calls for this in 

hall, 
• Thou get to horse and follow him far away. 
Cover the lions on thy shield, and see 
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor 
slain.' 

Then that same day there past into the 
hall 

A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 

May -blossom, and a cheek of apple- 
blossom. 

Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slender 

. nose 

jTip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; 

She into hall past with her page and cried, 

' O King, for thou hast driven the foe 
without. 
See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, beset 
By bandits, everyone that owns a tower 
IThe Lord for half a league. Wliy sit ye 
I there ? 

Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were 
i king. 

Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as free 
■From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar- 
I cloth 

From that best blood it is a sin to spill.' 

' Comfort thyself,' said Arthur, ' I nor 

mine 
Rest : so my knighthood keep the vows 

they swore. 
The wastest moorland of our realm shall 

be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
Wlnat is thy name ? thy need ? ' 



' My name?' she said — 
' Lynette my name ; noble ; my need, a 

knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lands, 
And comely, yea, and comelier than my- 
self. 
She lives in Castle Perilous : a river 
Runs in three loops about her living- 
place ; 
And o'er it are three passings, and three 

knights 
Defend the passings, brethren, and a 

fourth 
And of that four the mightiest, holds her 

stay'd 
In her own castle, and so besieges her 
To break her will, and make her wed with 

him : 
And but delays his purport till thou send 
To do the battle with him, thy chief man 
Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow. 
Then wed, with glory : but she will not 

wed 
Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 
Now therefore have I come for Lancelot. ' 

ThenArthurmindful of Sir Gareth ask'd, 
' Damsel, ye know this Order lives to 

crush 
All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these 

four, 
^^'ho be they? What the fashion of the 

men ?' 

' They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, 
The fashion of that old knight-errantry 
Who ride abroad, and do but what they 

will ; 
Courteous or bestial from the moment, 

such 
As have nor law nor king ; and three of 

these 
Proud in their fantasy call themselves the 

Day, 
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Even- 
ing-Star, 
Being strong fools ; and never a whit more 

wise 
The fourth, who alway rideth arm'd in 

black, 



328 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. 
He names himself the Night and oftener 

Death, 
And wears a helmet mounted with a skull, 
And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, 
To show that who may slay or scape the 

three. 
Slain by himself, shall enter endless night. 
And all these four befools, but mighty men. 
And therefore am I come for Lancelot.' 

Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where he 

rose, 
A head with kindling eyes above the 

throng, 
' A boon. Sir King — this quest ! ' then — 

for he mark'd 
Kay near him groaning like a wounded 

bull— 
' Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 
And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 

am I, 
And I can topple over a hundred such. 
Thy promise. King,' and Arthur glancing 

at him, 
Brought down a momentary brow. 

' Rough, sudden. 
And pardonable, worthy to be knight — 
Go therefore, 'and all hearers wereamazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, 
pride, wrath 

Slew the May- white : she lifted either arm, 

* Fie on thee. King ! I ask'd for thy chief 
knight, 

And thou hast given me but a kitchen- 
knave. ' 

Then ere a man in hall could stay her, 
turn'd, 

Fled down the lane of access to the King, 

Took horse, descended the slope street, 
and past 

The weird white gate, and paused without, 
beside 

The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen- 
knave.' 

Now two great entries open'd from the 
hall, 
At one end one, that gave upon a range 



Of level pavement where the King would 

pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood ; 
And down from this a lordly stairway 

sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of 

towers ; 
And out by this main doorway past the 

King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, and 

rose 
High that the highest-crested helm could 

ride 
Therethro' nor graze : and by this entry 

fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to this 
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the 

door 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a 

town, 
A warhorse of the best, and near it stood 
The two that out of north had follow'd 

him : 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; that 

held 
The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir Gareth 

loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to 

heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, 
And from it like a fuel-smother'd fire, 
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and 

flash'd as those 
Dull-coated things, that making slide 

apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there 

burns 
A jewell'd harness, ere they pass and fly. 
So Gareth ere he parted flash'd in arms. 
Then as he donn'd the helm, and took the 

shield 
And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of 

grain 
Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, and 

tipt 
With trenchant steel, around him slowly 

prest 
The people, while from out of kitchen came 
The thralls in throng, and seeing who had 

work'd 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



329 



Lustier than any, and whom they could 
but love, 

Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and 
cried, 

' God bless the King, and all his fellow- 
ship ! ' 

And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth rode 

Down the slope street, and past without 
the gate. 

So Gareth past with joy ; but as the cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his 

cause 
Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being 

named. 
His owner, but remembers all, and growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he used 
To harry and hustle. 

' Bound upon a quest 
^Vith horse and arms — the King hath past 

his time — 
iVIy scullion knave ! Thralls to your work 
i again, 

^or an your fire be low ye kindle mine ! 
^>Vill there be dawn in West and eve in 

East ? 
3egone ! — my knave ! — belike and like 

enow 
50me old head-blow not heeded in his 

youth 
)0 shook his wits they wander in his 

prime — 
>azed ! How the villain lifted up his 

voice, 
^Q>\ shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- 
' knave. 

Tut : he was tame and meek enow with 

me, 
rill peacock'd up with Lancelot's noticing. 
iVell — I will after my loud knave, and 

learn 
iVhether he know me for his master yet. 
)ut of the smoke he came, and so my 

lance 
lold, by God's grace, he shall into the 

mire — 
.'hence, if the King awaken from his craze, 
;nto the smoke again.' 



But Lancelot said, 
' Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the 

King, 
For that did never he whereon ye rail. 
But ever meekly served the King in thee ? 
Abide : take counsel ; for this lad is great 
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and 

sword.' 
'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are 

overfine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish cour- 
tesies ' : 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond the 
gate. 

But by the field of tourney lingering yet 
Mutter'd the damsel, ' Wherefore did the 

King 
Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, 

at least 
He might have yielded to me one of those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here. 
Rather than — O sweet heaven ! O fie 

upon him — 
His kitchen-knave.' 

To whom Sir Gareth drew 
(And there were none but few goodlier 

than he) 
Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine. 
Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one 
That smells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the 

holt, 
And deems it carrion of some woodland 

thing, 
Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose 
With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 

' Hence ! 
Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. 
And look who comes behind,' for there 

was Kay. 
' Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? I 

am Kay. 
We lack thee by the hearth.' 

And Gareth to him, 
' Master no more ! too well I know thee, 

ay— 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's 

hall.' 



330 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they 

shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 
' Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she 

fled. 

But after sod and shingle ceased to fly 
Behind her, and the heart of her good horse 
Was nigh to burst v/ith violence of the beat, 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken spoke. 

' What doest thou, scullion, in my 

fellowship ? 
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the 

more 
Or love thee better, that by some device 
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, 
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy 

master — thou ! — 
Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon ! — 

to me 
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 

' Damsel,' Sir Gareth answer'd gently, 
'say 
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest, 
Or die therefore.' 

' Ay, wilt thou finish it ? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he 

talks ! 
The listening rogue hath caught the 

manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, 

knave. 
And then by such a one that thou for all 
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt 
Shalt not once dare to look him in the 

face.' 

' I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile 
That madden'd her, and away she flash'd 

again 
Down the long avenues of a boundless 

wood. 
And Gareth following was again beknaved. 

' Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd the 
only way 
Where Arthur's men are set along the 
wood : 



The wood is nigh as full of thieves as 

leaves : 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but yet, 
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of 

thine ? 
Fight, an thou canst : I have miss'd the 

only way.' 

So till the dusk that follow'd evensong; 
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; 
Then after one long slope was mounted, 

saw, 
Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thousand 

pines 
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 
To westward — in the deeps whereof a 

mere, 
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, 
Under the half-dead sunset glared ; and 

shouts 
Ascended, and there brake a servingman 
Flying from out of the black wood, and 

crying, _ ^ , 

' They have bound my lord to cast him in!^ 

the mere.' 
Then Gareth, ' Bound am I to right the 

wrong'd. 
But straitlier bound am I to bide with 

thee.' 
And when the damsel spake contemptu- 
ously, 
' Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again, 
' Follow, I lead ! ' so down among the , 

pines 
He plunged ; and there, blackshadow'd 

nigh the mere. 
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and 

reed. 
Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, 
A stone about his neck to drown him 

in it. 
Three with good blows he quieted, but 

three 
Fled thro' the pines ; and Gareth loosed 

the stone 
From off" his neck, then in the mere beside 
Tumbled it ; oilily bubbled up the mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free 

feet 
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



331 



' Well that ye came, or else these caitiff 

rogues 
Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good 

cause is theirs 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever been 
To catch my thief, and then like vermin 

here 
Drown him, and with a stone about his 

neck ; 
And under this wan water many of them 
;Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, 
And rise, and flickering in a grimly light 
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have 

saved a life 
Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this 

wood. 
And fain would I reward thee worship- 

fiilly. 
What guerdon will ye ? ' 

I Gareth sharply spake, 

' None ! for the deed's sake have I done 
the deed. 

In uttermost obedience to the King. 

But wilt thou yield this damsel harbour- 
age?' 

Whereat the Baron saying, ' I well 
believe 

\^ou be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh 

Broke from Lynette, ' Ay, truly of a truth, 

Vnd in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 

But deem not I accept thee aught the 
more. 

Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit 

Down on a rout of craven foresters. 

A. thresher with his flail hadscatter'd them. 

,May — for thou smellest of the kitchen 
still. 

"i^ut an this lord will yield us harbourage, 

Well.' 

So she spake. A league beyond the 
wood, 
VU in a full-fair manor and a rich, 
. iiis towers where that day a feast had 
; been 

s^Ield in high hall, and many a viand left, 
Vnd many a costly cate, received the 
three. 



And there they placed a peacock in his 

pride 
Before the damsel, and the Baron set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 

' Meseems, that here is much dis- 
courtesy, 

Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. 

Hear me — this morn I stood in Arthur's 
hall, 

And pray'd the King would grant me 
Lancelot 

To fight the brotherhood of Day and 
Night — 

The last a monster unsubduable 

Of any save of him for whom I call'd — 

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- 
knave, 

"The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave 
am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 
am L" 

Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, 

"Go therefore," and so gives the quest 
to him — 

Him — here — a villain fitter to stick swine 

Than ride abroad redressing women's 
wrong. 

Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.' 

Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, 
the lord 
Now look'd at one and now at other, left 
The damsel by the peacock in his pride. 
And, seating Gareth at another board. 
Sat down beside him, ate and then began. 

' Friend, whether thou be kitchen- 
knave, or not, 
Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, 
x^nd whether she be mad, or else the 

King, 
Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 
I ask not : but thou strikest a strong 

stroke, 
For strong thou art and goodly there- 
withal. 
And saver of my life ; and therefore now, 
For here be mighty men to joust with, 
weigh 



332 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel 

back 
To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. 
Thy pardon ; I but speak for thine avail, 
The saver of my life. ' 

And Gareth said, 
* Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, 
Despite of Day and Night and Death and 
Hell.' 

So when, next morn, the lord whose 

life he saved 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them on 

their way 
And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth 

spake, 
'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she 

replied, 

* I fly no more : I allow thee for an 

hour. 
Lion and stoat have isled together, knave. 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, 

methinks 
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt 

thou, fool ? 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee : then will I to court again, 
And shame the King for only yielding 

me 
My champion from the ashes of his hearth.' 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd cour- 
teously, 

' Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. 

Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt 
find 

My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay 

Among the ashes and wedded the King's 
son.' 

Then to the shore of one of those long 

loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, they 

came. 
Rough -thicketed were the banks and 

steep ; the stream 
Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single arc 
Took at a leap ; and on the further side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 



In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in 

hue. 

Save that the dome was purple, and above, 
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
And therebefore the lawless warrior paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, ' Damsel, is this 

he. 
The champion thou hast brought from 

Arthur's hall ? 
For whom we let thee pass.' ' Nay, nay,' 

she said, 
' Sir Morning-Star. The King in utterj 

scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee 

here 
His kitchen -knave : and look thou to 

thyself : 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly. 
And slay thee unarm'd : he is not knight 

but knave.' 

Then at his call, ' O daughters of the 

Dawn, 
And servants of the Morning-Star, ap- 
proach. 
Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds 
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair 

girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came : their feet 
In dewy grasses glisten'd ; and the hair 
All over glanced with dewdrop or with 

gem 
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 
These arm'd him in blue arms, and gave I ; 

a shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning star. 
And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, 
Who stood a moment, ere his horse was 

brought. 
Glorying ; and in the stream beneath him, \ j 

shone i ' 

Immingled with Heaven's azure waver- 

ingly. 
The gay pavilion and the naked feet, 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. 

Then she that watch'd him, 'Wherefore 
stare ye so ? 
Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is j < 
time : 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



333 



Flee down the valley before he get to 

horse. 
Who will cry shame ? Thou art not 

knight but knave.' 

Said Gareth, ' Damsel, whether knave 

or knight, 
Far liefer had I fight a score of times 
Than hear thee so niissay me and revile. 
Fair words were best for him who fights 

for thee ; 
But truly foul are better, for they send 
That strength of anger thro' mine arms, 

I know 
That I shall overthrow him.' 

And he that bore 
The star, when mounted, cried from o'er 

the bridge, 
A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me ! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with 

scorn. 
For this were shame to do him further 

wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his 

horse 
\nd arms, and so return him to the 

King. 
I^ome, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
'\void : for it beseemeth not a knave 
To ride with such a lady.' 

' Dog, thou liest. 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine 

own.' 
ile spake ; and all at fiery speed the two 
bhock'd on the central bridge, and either 
I spear 

l^ent but not brake, and either knight at 
I once, 

liurl'd as a stone from out of a catapult 
beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, 
^ell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and 

drew, 
Vnd Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his 

brand 
le drave his enemy backward down the 

bridge. 
The damsel crying, ' Well -stricken, 

kitchen-knave ! ' 



Till Gareth's shield was cloven ; but one 

stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on the 

ground. 

Then cried the fall'n, ' Take not my 

life : I yield.' 
And Gareth, ' So this damsel ask it of me 
Good — I accord it easily as a grace.' 
She reddening, ' Insolent scullion : I of 

thee? 
I bound to thee for any favour ask'd ! ' 
'Then shall he die.' And Gareth there 

unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, butsheshriek'd, 
' Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler than thyself 'Damsel, thy 

charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise 
x^nd quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See 

thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. 
Thy shield is mine — farewell; and, 

damsel, thou. 
Lead, and I follow.' 

And fast away she fled. 
Then when he came upon her, spake, 

' Methought, 
Knave, when I watch'd thee striking on 

the bridge 
The savour of thy kitchen came upon me 
A Httle faintlier : but the wind hath 

changed : 
I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang, 
' " Omorningstar"(notthattallfelon there 
Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness 
Or some device, hast foully overthrown), 
" O morning star that smilest in the blue, 
O star, my morning dream hath proven 

true. 
Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath smiled 

on me." 

' But thou begone, take counsel, and 
away, 
For hard by here is one that guards a 
ford— 



334 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



The second brother in their fool's parable — 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. 
Care not for shame : thou art not knight 
but knave.' 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, laugh- 
ingly, 
* Parables ? Hear a parable of the knave. 
When I was kitchen-knave among the rest 
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my 

CO -mates 
Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast his 

coat, 
" Guard it," and there was none to meddle 

with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee the 

King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, 
To worry, and not to flee — and — knight 

or knave — 
The knave that doth thee service as full 

knight 
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight 
Toward thy sister's freeing.' 

' Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a 

knight. 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the more, ' 

' Fair damsel, you should worship me 
the more. 
That, being but knave, I throw thine 
enemies.' 

* Ay, ay,' she said, ' but thou shalt meet 
thy match.' 

So when they touch'd the second river- 
loop. 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail 
Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noonday 

Sun 
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, 
That blows a globe of after arrowlets. 
Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash'd the 

fierce shield. 
All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying 

blots 
Before them when he turn'd from watch- 
ing him. 



He from beyond the roaring shallow 

roar'd, 
' What doest thou, brother, in my marches 

here ? ' 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd again, 
Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's 

hall 
Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath 

his arms.' 
' Ugh ! ' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a 

red 
And cipher face of rounded foolishness, 
Push'd horse across the foamings of the 

ford. 
Whom Gareth met midstream : no room j 

was there | 

For lance or tourney-skill : four strokes j 

they struck I 

With sword, and these were mighty ; the ij 

new knight 
Had fear he might be shamed ; but as 

the Sun 
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the 

fifth. 
The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, 

the stream 
Descended, and the Sun was wash'd away. 

Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the 

ford ; 
So drew him home ; but he that fought 

no more. 
As being all bone-batter'd on the rock, 
Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the 

King. 
' Myself when I return will plead for thee.' 
' Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led. 
' Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed 

again ? ' 
' Nay, not a point : nor art thou victor 

here. , 

There lies a ridge of slate across the ford ; j 
His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for I i 

saw it. 

' " O Sun " (not this strong fool whom 

thou, Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappiness), 
"O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss ol | 

pain, 



GA RE TH AND L YNE TTE 



335 



O moon, that layest all to sleep again, 
Shine sweetly : twice my love hath smiled 
on me." 

* What knowest thou of lovesong or of 

love ? 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly 

born, 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, 
': perchance, — 

* " O dewy flowers that open to the 

sun, 
dewy flowers that close when day is 

done, 
Blow sweetly : twice my love hath smiled 
i on me." 



* What knowest thou of flowers, except, 

belike. 
To garnish meats with ? hath not our 

good King 
kVho lent me thee, the flower of kitchen - 

dom, 
\ foolish love for flowers ? what stick ye 

round 
The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's 

head ? 
, ["lowers ? nay, the boar hath rosemaries 

and bay. 

**'0 birds, that warble to the morning 
sky, 

birds that warble as the day goes by, 
;!ing sweetly : twice my love hath smiled 
' on me." 

I *What knowest thou of birds, lark, 

mavis, merle, 
.innet ? what dream ye when they utter 

forth 
|Iay- music growing with the growing 
1 light, 

heir sweet sun-worship? these be for the 

snare 
So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, 
.arding and basting. See thou have not 

now 
-arded thy last, except thou turn and fly. 
'here stands the third fool of their 

allegory.' 



For there beyond a bridge of treble 

bow. 
All in a rose-red from the west, and all 
Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the broad 
Deep -dimpled current underneath, the 

knight, 
That named himself the Star of Evening, 

stood. 

And Gareth, * Wherefore waits the 

madman there 
Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she 

cried, 
' Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd skins 
That fit him like his own ; and so ye cleave 
His armour off him, these will turn the 

blade.' 

Then the third brother shouted o'er the 

bridge, 

'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? 

Thy ward is higher up : but have ye slain 

The damsel's champion ? ' and the damsel 

cried, 

'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's 

heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and thee ! 
For both thy younger brethren have gone 

down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, Sir 

Star; 
Art thou not old ? ' 

' Old, damsel, old and hard. 
Old, with the might and breath of twenty 

boys.' 
Said Gareth, ' Old, and over - bold in 

brag ! 
But that same strength which threw the 

Morning Star 
Can throw the Evening.' 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 
' Approach and arm me ! ' With slow 

steps from out 
An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stain'd 
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, 
And arm'd him in old arms, and brought 

a helm 



336 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



With but a drying evergreen for crest, 
And gave a shield whereon the Star of 

Even 
Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his em- 
blem, shone. 
But when it glilter'd o'er the saddle-bow, 
They madly hurl'd together on the bridge ; 
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew. 
There met him drawn, and overthrew him 

again. 
But up like fire he started : and as oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on his 

knees, 
So many a time he vaulted up again ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great 

heart. 
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, 
Labour'd within him, for he seem'd as one 
That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life, 
But these from all his life arise, and cry, 
' Thou hast made us lords, and canst not 

put us down ! ' 
He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd to 

strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the 

while, 
' Well done, knave-knight, well stricken, 

O good knight-knave — 
O knave, as noble as any of all the 

knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table 

Round — 
His arms are old, he trusts the harden'd 

skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never 

change again.' 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote. 
And hew'd great pieces of his armour off 

him, 
But lash'd in vain against the harden'd 

skin, 
And could not wholly bring him under, 

more 
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge 

on ridge, 
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and 

springs 



For ever ; till at length Sir Gareth's brand 
Clash'd his, and brake it utterly to the 

hilt. 
' I have thee now ' ; but forth that other 

sprang, 
And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry 

arms 
Around him, till he felt, despite his mail, 
Strangled, but straining ev'n his uttermost j: 
Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er the 

bridge 
Down to the river, sink or swim, and 

cried, 
' Lead, and I follow. ' 

But the damsel said, 
' I lead no longer ; ride thou at my side ; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- 
knaves. 

'"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy 

plain, 
O rainbow with three colours after rain. 
Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath smiled 

on me." 

' Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had 

added — Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a, 

knave, — ' 

Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled,; 
Missaid thee ; noble I ani ; and thought 

the King 
Scorn'd me and mine ; and now thy' 

pardon, friend, 
For thou hast ever answer'd courteously,' 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek 

withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave. 
Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what thou 

art.' 

' Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all ti 

blame, 
Saving that you mistrusted our good Kin^, 
Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking,; 

one 
Not fit to cope your quest. You sai( 

your say ; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth 

I hold 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



337 



He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, 

nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed ? care not ! thy foul sayings 

fought for me : 
And seeing now thy words are fair, 

methinks 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his 

great self. 
Hath force to quell me.' 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, 
iLets down his other leg, and stretching, 
\ dreams 

'Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 
Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling at 

him. 
And told him of a cavern hard at hand. 
Where bread and baken meats and good 

red wine 
Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited 

him. 

f 

( Anon they past a narrow comb wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, knights 

on horse 
kulptured, and deckt in slowly-waning 

hues. 
Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once 

was here, 
VTiose holy hand hath fashion'd on the 

rock 
"he war of Time against the soul of man. 
,^nd yon four fools have suck'd their 

allegory 
rom these damp walls, and taken but 

the form, 
^now ye not these ? ' and Gareth lookt 

and read — 
n letters like to those the vexillary 
ilath left crag-carven o'er the streaming 

Gelt— 
Phosphorus,' then 'Meridies' — 
. 'Hesperus' — 

liNox'— 'Mors,' beneath five figures, 

armed men, 



Slab after slab, their faces forward all. 
And running down the Soul, a Shape that 

fled 
With broken wings, torn raiment and 

loose hair. 
For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 
' Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, 
^Vho comes behind ? ' 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter 

chanced. 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the 

wood — 
Sir Lancelot,^ ha\nng swum the river- 
loops — 
His blue shield-lions cover'd — softly drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw the 

star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, 

cried, 
' Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my 

friend.' 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the cry ; 
But when they closed — in a moment — at 

one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of the 

world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell. 
That when he found the grass within his 

hands 
He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly she ask'd him, ' Shamed and 

overthrown. 
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave, 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your boast 

in vain ? ' 
' Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Belli- 

cent. 
And victor of the bridges and the ford. 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by 

whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappiness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappiness — 
Out, sword ; we are thrown ! ' And 

Lancelot answer'd, ' Prince, 
O Gareth — thro' the mere unhappiness 



338 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



Of one who came to help thee, not to 

harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee 

whole. 
As on the day when Arthur knighted him. ' 

Then Gareth, ' Thou— Lancelot ! — 

thine the hand 
That threw me ? An some chance to mar 

the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make — which could 

not chance — 
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear. 
Shamed had I been, and sad — O Lancelot 

—thou ! ' 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lance- 
lot, 
Wliy came ye not, when call'd ? and 

wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd ? I gloried in my 

knave, 
Who being still rebuked, would answer 

still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, if 

knight. 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd 

and trick'd, 
And only wondering wherefore play'd 

upon : 
And doubtful whether I and mine be 

scorn'd. 
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's 

hall. 
In Arthur's presence ? Knight, knave, 

prince and fool, 
I hate thee and for ever.' 

And Lancelot said, 

' Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth ! knight 
art thou 

To the King's best wish. O damsel, be 
you wise 

To call him shamed, who is but over- 
thrown ? 

Thrown have I been, nor once, but many 
a time. 

Victor from vanquish'd issues at the last. 

And overthrower from being overthrown. 

With sword we have not striven ; and 
thy good horse 



And thou are weary ; yet not less I felt 

Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance 
of thine. 

Well hast thou done ; for all the stream 
is freed. 

And thou hast wreak'd his justice on his 
foes, 

And when reviled, hast answer'd graci- 
ously, 

And makest merry when overthrown. 
Prince, Knight, 

Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our 
Table Round ! ' 

And then when turning to Lynette he ! 

told 
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 
' Ay well — ay well — for worse than being , 

fool'd I 

Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, , 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and 1 

drinks 
And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 
Seek, till we find.' And when they 

sought and found. 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life 
Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden 

gazed. 
' Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause to 

sleep hast thou. 
Wake lusty ! Seem I not as tender to 

him 
As any mother ? Ay, but such a one 
As all day long hath rated at her child, 
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep- 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the 

honeysuckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world were 

one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness ! 
O Lancelot, Lancelot' — and she clapt 

her hands — 
' Full merry am I to find my goodly knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn 

have I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me pass. 
To bring thee back to do the battle with 

him. 
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first 



GA RE TH AND L YNE TTE 



339 



Who doubts thee victor ? so will my 
knight-knave 

Miss the full flower of this accomplish- 
ment.' 

Said Lancelot, ' Peradventure he, you 

name. 
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an 

he will, 
Change his for mine, and take my charger, 

fresh, 
Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as 

well 
As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' 

she said, 
* Courteous in this. Lord Lancelot, as in 

all' 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch'd 

the shield ; 
'' Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom 

all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to roar ! 
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your 

lord !— 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for 

you. 
p noble Lancelot, from my hold on these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that will 

not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. 
iHence : let us go.' 

Silent the silent field 
rhey traversed. Arthur's harp tho' 

summer-wan, 
n counter motion to the clouds, allured 
rhe glance of Gareth dreaming on his 

liege. 
V star shot : ' Lo,' said Gareth, ' the foe 

falls ! ' 
\n owl whoopt : ' Hark the victor peal- 
ing there ! ' 
Suddenly she that rode upon his left | 

I'lung to the shield that Lancelot lent i 

him, crying, | 

Vield, yield him this again : 'tis he must i 

fight : 
. curse the tongue that all thro' yesterday 
<eviled thee, and hath wrought on 

Lancelot now 



To lend thee horse and shield : wonders 

ye have done ; 
Miracles ye cannot : here is glory enow 
In having flung the three : I see thee 

maim'd. 
Mangled : I swear thou canst not fling 

the fourth.' 

' And wherefore, damsel ? tell me all 

ye know. 
You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, or 

voicCj 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery 
Appal me from the quest.' 

'Nay, Prince,' she cried, 
' God wot, I never look'd upon the face, 
Seeing he never rides abroad b}- day ;■ 
But watch'd him have I like a phantom 

pass 
Chilling the night : nor have I heard the 

voice. 
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page 
Who came and went, and still reported 

him 
As closing in himself the strength of ten. 
And when his anger tare him, massacring 
Man, woman, lad and girl— yea, the soft 

babe ! 
Some hold that he hath swallow'd infant 

flesh. 
Monster ! O Prince, I went for Lancelot 

first. 
The quest is Lancelot's : give him back 

the shield.' 

Said Gareth laughing, ' An he fight for 
this. 
Belike he wins it as the better man : 
Thus — and not else ! ' 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 
When one might meet a mightier than 

himself ; 
How best to manage horse, lance, sword 

and shield. 
And so fill up the gap where force might 

fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were 

his words. 



340 



GARETfl AND LYNETTE 



Then Gareth, ' Here be rules. I know 

but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to win. 
Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the 

joust, 
And seen thy way.' ' Heaven help thee,' 

sigh'd Lynette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud that 

grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they 

rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey halt, 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper'd, 

' There.' 
And all the three were silent seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson on the 

marge, 
Black, with black banner, and a long 

black horn 
Beside it hanging ; which Sir Gareth 

graspt. 
And so, before the two could hinder him. 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all the 

horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; anon 
Came lights and lights, and once again 

he blew ; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up and 

down 
And muffled voices heard, and shadows 

Till high above him, circled with her 

maids, 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood. 
Beautiful among lights, and waving to him 
White hands, and courtesy ; but when 

the Prince 
Three times had blown — after long hush 

— at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, 
Thro' those black foldings, that which 

housed therein. 
High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack 

arms. 
With white breast -bone, and barren ribs 

of Death, 



And crown'd with fleshless laughter — 

some ten steps — 
In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn — 

advanced 
The monster, and then paused, and spake 

no word. 

But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 
' Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength 

of ten. 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God 

hath given, 
But must, to make the terror of thee more, 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, and 

the clod. 
Less dull than thou, will hide with 

mantling flowers 
As if for pity ? ' But he spake no word ; 
Which set the horror higher : a maiden : 

swoon'd ; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and i 

wept, II 

As doom'd to be the bride of Night and 

Death ; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his 

helm ; 
And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm 

blood felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him were 

aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely 

neigh'd, 
And Death's dark war-horse bounded 

forward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the terror, 

saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and 

slowly rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the 

skull. 
Half fell to right and half to lefi; and lay. . , 
Then with a stronger buffet he clove the I | 

helm 
As throughly as the skull ; and out from 

this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming bo) 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying; 

' Knight, 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



341 



Slay me not : my three brethren bad me 

do it, 
To make a horror all about the house, 
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. 
They never dream'd the passes would be 

past.' 
Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 
Not many a moon his younger, ' My fair 

child, 
What madness made thee challenge the 

chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall ? ' ' Fair Sir, they bad 

me do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the 

King's friend, 
They hoped to slay him somewhere on 

the stream. 
They never dream'd the passes could be 

past.' 

i Then sprang the happier day from 

underground ; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, with 

dance 
And revel and song, made merry over 

Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 
And horrors only proven a blooming boy. 
So large mirth lived and Gareth won the 

quest. 

And he that told the tale in older times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he, that told it later, says Lynettc. 



' THE MARRLA.GE OF GERAINT 

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's 

: court, 

lA tributary prince of Devon, one 

Of that great Order of the Table Round, 

Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, 

A.nd loved her, as he loved the light of 

Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
\t sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 
IvVith moon and trembling stars, so loved 

Geraint 
To make her beauty vary day by day, 



In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's 

eye. 
Who first had found and loved her in a 

state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendour ; and the Queen 

herself, 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service 

done, 
Loved her, and often with her own white 

hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, 
Next after her own self, in all the court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true 

heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so close. 
Long in their common love rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But when a rumour rose about the Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet 

was heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking into 

storm. 
Not less Geraint believed it ; and there fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife. 
Thro' that great tenderness for Guinevere, 
Had suffer'd, or should suffer any taint 
In nature : wherefore going to the King, 
He made this pretext, that his princedom 

lay 
Close on the borders of a territory. 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights, 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : 
And therefore, till the King himself 

should please 
To cleanse this common sewer of all his 

realm. 
He craved a fair permission to depart, 
And there defend his marches ; and the 

King 
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 
Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode. 
And fifty knights rode with them., to the 

shores 



342 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land ; 
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife 
True to her lord, mine shall be so to me. 
He compass'd her with sweet observances 
And worship, never leaving her, and grew 
Forgetful of his promise to the King, 
Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, 
Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 
Forgetful of his glory and his name, 
Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 
And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. 
And by and by the people, when they met 
In twos and threes, or fuller companies. 
Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him 
As of a prince whose manhood was all 

gone, 
And molten down in mere uxoriousness. 
And this she gather'd from the people's 

eyes : 
This too the women who attired her head. 
To please her, dwelling on his boundless 

love, 
Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the 

more : 
And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, 
But could not out of bashful delicacy ; 
While he that watch'd her sadden, was 

the more 
Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last, it chanced that on a summer 

morn 
(They sleeping each by either) the new sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of the 

room. 
And heated the strong warrior in his 

dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
And bared the knotted column of his 

throat, 
The massive square of his heroic breast, 
And arms on which the standing muscle 

sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone. 
Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, 
Admiring him, and thought within herself. 
Was ever man so grandly made as he ? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk 



And accusation of uxoriousness 

Across her mind, and bowing over him, 

Low to her own heart piteously she said : 

' O noble breast and all-puissant arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is 

gone ? 
I am the cause, because I dare not speak 
And tell him what I think and what they 

say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his name. 
Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, 
And ride with him to battle and stand by. 
And watch his mightful hand striking 

great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 
Not hearing any more his noble voice. 
Not to be folded more in these dear arms, 
And darken'd from the high light in his 

eyes, 
Than that my lord thro' me should suffer 

shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, 
Or maybe pierced to death before mine 

eyes. 
And yet not dare to tell him what I think, 
And how men slur him, saying all his force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy ? 
O me, I fear that I am no true wife.' 

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, 
And the strong passion in her made her 

weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked 

breast. 
And these awoke him, and by great mis- 
chance 
He heard but fragments of her later words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. , 
And then he thought, ' In spite of all myj 
care, | 

For all my pains, poor man, for all tnyi 
pains, ' 

She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur s 
hall.' 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



343 



Then tho' he loved and reverenced her 

too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul act, 
Right thro' his manful breast darted the 

pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her 
Wliom he loves most, lonely and miserable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of 

bed. 
And shook his drowsy squire awake and 

cried, 
' My charger and her palfrey ' ; then to her, 
' I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
, For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would 

wish. 
And thou, put on thy worst and meanest 

dress 
And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, 
I ' If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.' 
: But he, ' I charge thee, ask not, but obey.' 
Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil. 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
.Wherein she kept them folded reverently 
I With sprigs of summer laid between the 
> folds, 

She took them, and array'd herself therein. 
Remembering when first he came on her 
iDrest in that dress, and how he loved her 

in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress, 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
I Had told her, and their coming to the 
\ court. 

i 

i For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before 
'Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
■There on a day, he sitting high in hall. 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, 
[First seen that day : these things he told 

the King. 
Then the good King gave order to let blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for his 

leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 



So with the morning all the court were 

gone. 
But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her 

love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; 
But rose at last, a single maiden with her, 
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd 

the wood ; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 
Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard 

instead 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince 

Geraint, 
Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress 
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, 
Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow 

ford 
Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
There swung an apple of the purest gold, 
Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up 
To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, 
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd 

him : 
'Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 'later 

than we ! ' 
'Yea, noble Queen,' he answer'd, 'and 

so late 
That I but come like you to see the 

hunt. 
Not join it.' 'Therefore wait with me,' 

she said ; 
' For on this little knoll, if anywhere, 
There is good chance that we shall hear 

the hounds : 
Here often they break covert at our feet.' 

And while they listen'd for the distant 

hunt. 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, 

there rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; 
WTiereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the 

knight 
Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful face. 



344 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



Imperious, and of haughtiest hneaments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the King's hall, desired his name, and 

sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf ; 
Who being vicious, old and irritable, 
And doubling all his master's vice of pride, 
Made answer sharply that she should not 

know. 
'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said. 
' Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried 

the dwarf; 
* Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of 

him ' ; 
And when she put her horse toward the 

knight. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; whereat Geraint 
Exclaiming, ' Surely I will learn the name,' 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it 

of him. 
Who answer'd as before ; and when the 

Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward the 

knight, 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his 

cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 
But he, from his exceeding manfulness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, 

refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning said : 

' I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 
Done in your maiden's person to yourself : 
And I will track this vermin to their 

earths : 
For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 
To find, at some place I shall come at, 

arms 
On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being 

found. 
Then will I fight him, and will break his 

pride. 
And on the third day will again be here, 
So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell. ' 



' Farewell, fair Prince,' answer'd the 

stately Queen. 
' Be prosperous in this journey, as in all ; 
And may you light on all things that you 

love, 
And live to wed with her whom first you 

love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your 

bride. 
And I, were she the daughter of a 

king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the 

hedge. 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the 

sun.' 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that 

he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode. 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy 

glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following the 

three. 
At last they issued from the world of 

wood. 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, 
And show'd themselves against the sky, 

and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and under- 
neath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side whereof, 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress 

rose ; 
And on one side a castle in decay, 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry 

ra\dne : 
And out of town and valley came a noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the 

three. 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the 

walls. 
'So,' thought Geraint, 'I have track'd 

him to his earth.' 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



345 



And down the long street riding wearily, 
Found every hostel full, and everywhere 
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot 

hiss 
And bustling whistle of the youth who 

scour'd 
His master's armour ; and of such a one 
He ask'd, 'What means the tumult in 

the town ? ' 
Who told him, scouring still, * The 

sparrow-hawk ! ' 
Then riding close behind an ancient churl, 
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam. 
Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, 
Ask'd yet once more what meant the 

hubbub here ? 
'.Who answer'd gruffly, ' Ugh ! the sparrow- 
hawk.' 
Then riding further past an armourer's. 
Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above 

his work. 
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 
He put the self-same query, but the man 
Not turning round, nor looking at him, 

said : 
I Friend, he that labours for the sparrow- 
hawk 
i^as little tiine for idle questioners.' 
jiVhereat Geraint flash'd into sudden 
spleen : 
A thousand pips eat up your sparrow- 
hawk ! 
;rits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck 
\ him dead ! 

f e think the rustic cackle of your bourg 
•rhe murmur of the world ! What is it 
' to me ? 

|) wretched set of sparrows, one and all, 
[Vho pipe of nothing but of sparrow- 
hawks ! 
peak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk- 

mad, 
^ere can I get me harbourage for the 

night ? 

'■nd arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy ? 
Speak ! ' 
ereat the armourer turning all amazed 
,iid seeing one so gay in purple silks, 
lame forward with the helmet yet in 
hand 



And answer'd, ' Pardon me, O stranger 

knight ; 
We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn. 
And there is scantly time for half the work. 
Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are 

wanted here. 
Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know 

not, save, 
It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge 
Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work 

again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, 
Across the bridge that spann'd the dry 

ravine. 
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, 
(His dress a suit of fray' d magnificence. 
Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and 

said : 
'Whither, fair son?' to whom Geraint 

replied, 
' O friend, I seek a harbourage for the 

night.' 
Then Yniol, ' Enter therefore and partake 
The slender entertainment of a house 
Once rich, now poor, but ever open- 

door'd.' 
' Thanks, venerable friend,' replied 

Geraint ; 
' So that ye do not serve me sparrow- 
hawks 
For supper, I will enter, I will eat 
With all the passion of a twelve hours' 

fast.' 
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed 

Earl, 
And answer'd, ' Graver cause than yours 

is mine 
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow- 
hawk : 
But in, go in ; for save yourself desire it, 
We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest.' 

Then rode Geraint into the castle court. 
His charger trampling many a prickly 

star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed 

with fern ; 



346 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



And here had fall'n a great part of a 

tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the 

cliff, 
And like a crag was gay with wildmg 

flowers : 
And high above a piece of turret stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, 

wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred 

arms. 
And suck'd the joining of the stones, and 

look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 

And while he waited in the castle court. 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the hall, 
Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, _ 
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geramt ; 
And made him like a man abroad at morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of men 
Comes flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green 

and red. 
And he suspends his converse with a 

friend, 
Or it may be the labour of his hands, 
To think or say, ' There is the nightingale ' ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought 

and said, 
' Here, by God's grace, is the one voice 
for me.' 
It chanced the song that Enid sang 
was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid 
sang: 



'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and 

lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, 

storm, and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate. 



'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 

smile or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great. 

' Smile and we smile, the lords of many 

lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our 

own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

' Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring 

crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the 

cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate.' i 

' Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn j 
the nest,' . j 

Said Yniol ; ' enter quickly.' Entering] 
then, ; 

Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, j 
The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd hall, | 
He found an ancient dame in dim bro- 
cade ; 
And near her, like a blossom vermeil- 
white. 
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, 
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, 
Her daughter.' In a moment thought 

Geraint, 
' Here by God's rood is the one maid toi 

me.' 
But none spake word except the hoar) 
Earl: , . 

' Enid, the good knight's horse stands u 

the court ; 
Take him to stall, and give him corn, an( 

then 
Go to the town and buy us flesh an^ 

wine ; 
And we will make us merry as we may. 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts ar 
great.' 



He spake : the Prince, as Enid pas 

him, fain ,i 

To follow, strode a stride, but Ymol caugr; 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



347 



His purple scarf, and held, and said, 

' Forbear ! 
'Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my 

son, 
Endures not that her guest should serve 

himself. ' 
A.nd reverencing the custom of the house 
ijeraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the stall ; 
And after went her way across the bridge, 
\nd reach'd the town, and while the 

Prince and Earl 
V'et spoke together, came again with one, 
A. youth, that following with a costrel bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and 
: wine. 

\nd Enid brought sweet cakes to make 

them cheer, 
\nd in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. 
\nd then, because their hall must also 

serve 
?or kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread 

the board, 
\.nd stood behind, and waited on the 

three. 
\nd seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
Oeraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, 
That crost the trencher as she laid it 

down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
^"or now the wine made summer in his 

veins, 
--et his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 
Vow here, now there, about the dusky 

hall; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl : 

} *Fair Host and Earl, I pray your 

courtesy ; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he ? tell me 

of him. 
lis name ? but no, good faith, I will not 

have it : 
''or if he be the knight whom late I saw 
^ide into that new fortress by your town, 
Vhite from the mason's hand, then have 

I sworn 



From his own lips to have it — I am 

Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the 

Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she re- 

turn'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his hold. 
And fight and break his pride, and have 

it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to 

find 
Arms in your town, where all the men 

are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their 

bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round the 

world ; 
They would not hear me speak : but if 

ye know 
^'Vhere I can light on arms, or if yourself 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have 

sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn his 

name. 
Avenging this great insult done the 

Queen.' 

Then cried Earl Yniol, 'Art thou he 

indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among men 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, when first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge. 
Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your 

state 
And presence might have guess'd you one 

of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
For this dear child hath often heard me 

praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I 

paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear ; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong : 
O never yet had woman such a pair 
Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, 



348 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



A creature wholly given to brawls and 

wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he 

dead 
I know not, but he past to the wild land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow- 
hawk, 
My curse, my nephew — I will not let his 

name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — he, 
When I that knew him fierce and tur- 
bulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ; 
And since the proud man often is the 

mean, 
He sow'd a slander in the common ear, 
Affirming that his father left him gold, 
And in my charge, which was not ren- 

der'd to him ; 
Bribed with large promises the men who 

served 
About my person, the more easily 
Because my means were somewhat broken 

into 
Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 
Raised my own town against me in the 

night 
Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my 

house ; 
From mine own earldom foully ousted 

me ; 
Built that new fort to overawe my friends, 
For truly there are those who love me 

yet; _ 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle here. 
Where doubtless he would put me soon 

to death. 
But that his pride too much despises 

me : 
And I myself sometimes despise myself ; 
For I have let men be, and have their 

way ; 
Am much too gentle, have not used my 

power : 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know. 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently.' 



' Well said, true heart,' replied Geraint, 

' but arms, 
That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, 

fight 
In next day's tourney I may break his 

pride.' 

And Yniol answer'd, ' Arms, indeed, 
but old 
And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, 
Are mine, and therefore at thine asking, 

thine. 
But in this tournament can no man tilt, 
Except the lady he loves best be there. 
Two forks are fixt into the meadow 

ground, 
And over these is placed a silver wand, 
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, what knight soever be in field ' 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side. 
And tilts with my good nephew there- 
upon, 
Who being apt at arms and big of bone i 
Has ever won it for the lady with him. 
And toppling over all antagonism 
Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow- 
hawk. 
But thou, that hast no lady, canst not 
fight.' 

To whom Geraint with eyes all brigh. 
replied, 
Leaning a little toward him, ' Thy leave ! 
I^et 7ne lay lance in rest, O noble host, 
For this dear child, because I never saw,i 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine utter- 
most, 
As I will make her truly my true wife.' 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol'shearl, 
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days.[ 
And looking round he saw not Enid there.i 
(Who hearing her own name had stol'rj 
away) \ 

But that old dame, to whom full tender!) | 
And fondling all her hand in his he said; 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



349 



' Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 
And best by her that bore her understood. 
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the 
I Prince. ' 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and 

she 
With frequent smile and nod departing 

found, 
Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, 

and then 
3n either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
A.nd kept her off and gazed upon her face. 
And told her all their converse in the hall, 
Proving her heart : but never light and 

shade 
Coursed one another more on open ground 
3eneath a troubled heaven, than red and 

pale 
Vcross the face of Enid hearing her ; 
ATiile slowly falling as a scale that falls, 
yVhen weight is added only grain by grain, 
)ank her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast ; 
^for did she lift an eye nor speak a word, 
-lapt in the fear and in the wonder of it ; 
50 moving without answer to her rest 
ihe found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
\nd when the pale and bloodless east 

began 
i^o quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
iler mother too, and hand in hand they 
j moved 

pown to the meadow where the jousts 
' were held, 

Vnd waited there for Yniol and Geraint. 

I And thither came the twain, and when 
! Geraint 

beheld her first in field, awaiting him, 
'le felt, were she the prize of bodily force, 
limself beyond the rest pushing could 

move 
^he chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms 
iVere on his princely person, but thro' 

these 



Princelike his bearing shone ; and errant 

knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the town 
Flov/'d in, and settling circled all the lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the 

ground, 
And over these they placed the silver wand. 
And over that the golden sparrow-hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet 

blown, 
Spake to the lady with him and pro- 
claim' d, 
' Advance and take, as fairest of the fair. 
What I these two years past have won 

for thee. 
The prize of beauty. ' Loudly spake the 

Prince, 
' Forbear : there is a worthier,' and the 

knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much 

disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his 

face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at 

Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 
' Do battle for it then,' no more ; and 

thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they 

brake their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd 

at each 
So often and with such blows, that all the 

crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from distant 

walls 
There came a clapping as of phantom 

hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they 

breathed, and still 
The dew of their great labour, and the 

blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd 

their force. 
But cither's force was match'd till Yniol's 

cry, 
' Remember that great insult done the 

Queen,' 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade 

aloft. 



350 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERATNT 



And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the 

bvone, 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his 

breast, 
And said, ' Thy name ? ' To whom the 

fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, ' Edyrn, son of 

Nudd! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 
My pride is broken : men have seen my 

fall.' 
'Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied 

Geraint, 
* These two things shalt thou do, or else 

thou diest. 
First, thou thyself, with damsel and with 

dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming 

there, 
Crave pardon for that insult done the 

Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it ; next. 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy 

kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou 

shalt die.' 
And Edyrn answer'd, ' These things will 

I do. 
For I have never yet been overthrown. 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my 

pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall ! ' 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court. 
And there the Queen forgave him easily. 
And being young, he changed and came 

to loathe 
His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself 
Bright from his old dark life, and fell at 

last 
In the great battle fighting for the King. 

But when the third day from the 

hunting-morn 
Made a low splendour in the world, and 

wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow light. 
Among the dancing shadows of the birds, 
Woke and bethought her of her promise 

given 



No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — '- 
So bent he seem'd on going the third day, 
He would not leave her, till her promise 

given — 
To ride with him this morning to the 

court. 
And there be made known to the stately 

Queen, 
And there be wedded with all ceremony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, 
And thought it never yet had look'd so 

mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to the 

dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the terror 

grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, 

a court. 
All staring at her in her faded silk : 
And softly to her own sweet heart she said: 

u 

' This noble prince who won our 

earldom back. 
So splendid in his acts and his attire. 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit ' 

him ! 
Would he could tarry with us here awhile. 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us, 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, } 
To seek a second favour at his hands. i 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two. 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger 

lame. 
Far liefer than so much discredit him.' 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a 

costly gift 
j Of her good mother, given her on the 

night j 

Before her birthday, three sad years ago, j \ 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'dj i 

their house, j 

And scatter'd all they had to all the winds:" 
For while the mother show'd it, and thel 

two 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



351 



Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edvrn's men were on them, and they 

fled 
|With little save the jewels they had on, 
Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread : 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in 

their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin ; and she 

wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her ancient 

home ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
,\nd roam the goodly places that she 

knew ; 
Vnd last bethought her liow she used to 

watch, 
\"ear that old home, a pool of golden carp ; 
Vnd one was patch'd and blurr'd and 

lustreless 
\.mong his burnish'd brethren of the pool ; 
iVnd half asleep she made comparison 
\)i that and these to her own faded self 
JVnd the gay court, and fell asleep again ; 
\nd dreamt herself was such a faded form 
\mong her burnish'd sisters of the pool ; 
Jut this was in the garden of a king ; 
Vnd tho' she lay dark in the pool, she 

knew 
.'hat all was bright ; that all about were 

birds 
i)f sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; 
rhat all the turf was rich in plots that 
; look'd 

f2ach like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
\nd lords and ladies of the high court 
: went 

n silver tissue talking things of state ; 
Vnd children of the King in cloth of 
1^ gold 

ilanced at the doors or gambol'd down 

the walks ; 
\nd while she thought ' They will not 

see me,' came 
V stately queen whose name was 

Guinevere, 
^.nd all the children in their cloth of gold 
Ian to her, crying, ' If we have fish at 
all 



Let them be gold ; and charge the 

gardeners now 
To pick the faded creature from the pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die.' 
And therewithal one came and seized on 

her, 
And Enid started waking, with her heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish dream. 
And lo ! it was her mother grasping her 
To get her well awake ; and in her hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly : 

' See here, my child, how fresh the 

colours look, 
How fast they hold like colours of a shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the 

wave. 
Wliy not ? It never yet was worn, I trow : 
Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know 

it.' 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at 

first. 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish 

dream : 
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced. 
And answer'd, ' Yea, I know it ; your 

good gift, 
So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 
Your own good gift ! ' ' Yea, surely, ' said 

the dame, 
' And gladly given again this happy morn. 
For when the jousts were ended yesterday. 
Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- 
where 
He found the sack and plunder of our 

house 
All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town ; 
And gave command that all which once 

was ours 
Should now be ours again : and yester-eve. 
While ye were talking sweetly with your 

Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my hand. 
For love or fear, or seeking favour of us, 
Because we have our earldom back again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you of it. 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 



352 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have 

yours. 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house. 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare. 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal. 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, 

and all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house ; 
But since our fortune swerved from sun to 

shade. 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has 

come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride : 
For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair. 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair, 
Let never maiden think, however fair. 
She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 
And should some great court-lady say, the 

Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged -robin from the 

hedge. 
And like a madman brought her to the 

court. 
Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might 

shame the Prince 
To whom we are beholden ; but I know, 
When my dear child is set forth at her best, 
That neither court nor country, tho' they 

sought 
Thro' all the provinces like those of old 
That lighted on Queen Esther, has her 

match.' 

Here ceased the kindly mother out of 

breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she la}^ ; 
Then, as the white and glittering star of 

morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, 
And left her maiden couch, and robed 

herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand and 

eye, 



Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, 

and said, 
She never yet had seen her half so fair ; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of 

flowers, 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman Csesar 

first 
Invaded Britain, ' But we beat him back, 
As this great Prince invaded us, and we, 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to court, 
For old am I, and rough the ways and 

wild ; 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream 
I see my princess as I see her now. 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among the 

gay.' 

But while the women thus rejoiced,! 

Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and 

call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report i 
Of that good mother making Enid gay ' 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately Queen. 
He answer'd : ' Earl, entreat her by my 

love, 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish, j 
That she ride with me in her faded silk.'i 
Yniol with that hard message went ; it fell 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : 
For Enid, all abash'd she knew not why, 
Dared not to glance at her good mother's: 

face. 
But silently, in all obedience. 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her, j 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'dj I 

gift, , _ ^ . il 

And robed them in her ancient suit again, j 
And so descended. Never man rejoicec: 
More than Geraint to greet her thu^ 

attired ; 
And glancing all at once as keenly at hei 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil, 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



353 



i But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; 
i Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, 
1 Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly 
1 said, 

I ' O my new mother, be not wroth or 

grieved 
At thy new son, for my petition to her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great 

Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were so 

sweet, 
Made promise, that whatever bride I 

brought, 
tHerself would clothe her like the sun in 

Heaven. 

Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall, 
[Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
[ vow'd that could I gain her, our fair 
I Queen, 

' No hand but hers, should make your Enid 

burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought 

perhaps. 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 
The two together ; fain I would the two 
ihould love each other : how can Enid 

find 
V nobler friend ? Another thought was 
mine ; 
came among you here so suddenly, 
7hat tho' her gentle presence at the lists 
Vlight well have served for proof that I 
i was loved, 

I doubted whether daughter's tenderness, 
|)r easy nature, might not let itself 
i5e moulded by your wishes for her weal ; 
')r whether some false sense in her own 

self 
)f my contrasting brightness, overbore 
Jer fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 
i.nd such a sense might make her long 
: for court 

^nd all its perilous glories : and I 

thought, 
"hat could I someway prove such force 

in her 
ink'd with such love for me, that at a 
word 



(No reason given her) she could cast aside 
A splendour dear to women, new to her, 
And therefore dearer ; or if not so new. 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 
Of intermitted usage ; then I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and 

flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do 

rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy. 
That never shadow of mistrust can cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for my 

thoughts : 
And for my strange petition I will make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 
When your fair child shall wear your 

costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on 

her knees, 
Who knows? another gift of the high 

God, 
Wliich, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp 

you thanks.' 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but half 

in tears, 
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt 

her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode 

away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had 

climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, 

they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow sea ; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale 

of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them 

come ; 
And then descending met them at the 

gates. 
Embraced her with all welcome as a 

friend. 
And did her honour as the Prince's bride, 
And clothed her for her bridals like the 

sun ; 
And all that week was old Caerleon gay, 
2 A 



354 



GERAINT AND ENID 



For by the hands of Dubric, the high 
saint, 

They twain were wedded with all cere- 
mony. 

And this was on the last year's Whit- 
suntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress, 
And all his journey toward her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 
court. 

And now this morning when he said 

to her, 
'Put on your worst and meanest dress,' 

she found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein. 

GERAINT AND ENID 

PURBLIND race of miserable men, 
How many ainong us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
By taking true for false, or false for true ; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and 

reach 
That other, where we see as we are seen I 

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing 

forth 
That morning, when they both had got 

to horse. 
Perhaps because he loved her passionately, 
And felt that tempest brooding round his 

heart. 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break 

perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
' Not at my side. I charge thee ride 

before. 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 

1 charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me, 
No, not a word ! ' and Enid was aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three 

paces on, 



When crying out, ' Effeminate as I am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded arms, 
All shall be iron ' ; he loosed a mighty 

purse. 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward 

the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, 

strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the j 

squire 
Chafing his shoulder : then he cried again 
' To the wilds ! ' and Enid leading down i 

the tracks I 

Thro' which he bad her lead him on, 

they past j 

The marches, and by bandit - haunted i 

holds. 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places of | 

the hern, I 

And wildernesses, perilous paths, they 

rode : ] 

Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd 1 

soon : 
A stranger meeting them had surely 

thought 
They rode so slowly and they look'd so 

pale, 
That each had suffer'd some exceeding i 

wrong. ' 

For he was ever saying to himself, 
' O I that wasted time to tend upon her, 
To compass her with sweet observances, 
To dress her beautifully and keep her 

true ' — 
x-Ynd there he broke the sentence in his 

heart 
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion masters 

him. 
And she was ever praying the sweet 

heavens 
To save her dear lord whole from any 

wound. 
And ever in her mind she cast about 
For that unnoticed failing in herself, 
Which made him look so cloudy and so 

cold ; 
Till the great plover's human whistle 

amazed 



GERAINT AND ENID 



155 



> Her heart, and glancing round the waste 
she fear'd 

I In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 
Then thought again, ' If there be such in 

' me, 

I I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, 
I If he would only speak and tell me of it. ' 

I But when the fourth part of the day 
I was gone, 

JThen Enid was aware of three tall knights 
lOn horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a 

rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; 
)And heard one crying to his fellow, 

' Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging down his 

head, 
^Vho seems no bolder than a beaten 

hound ; 
jJome, we will slay him and will have his 

horse 
\.nd armour, and his damsel shall be 

ours.' 

[t Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and 
said : 
I will go back a little to my lord, 
\nd I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; 
•'or, be he wroth even to slaying me, 
''ar liefer by his dear hand had I die, 
'han that my lord should suffer loss or 
shame. ' 

I Then she went back some paces of 

I return, 

ttet his full frown timidly firm, and said : 

iMy lord, I saw three bandits by the 

\ rock 

Vaiting to fall on you, and heard them 

boast 
hat they would slay you, and possess 

your horse 
nd armour, and your damsel should be 

theirs.' 

1 le made a wrathful answer : ' Did I 

wish 
our warning or your silence ? one com- 
I mand 

laid upon you, not to speak to me, 



And thus ye keep it ! Well then, look 

- — for now, 
Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death, 
Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful. 
And down upon him bare the bandit 

three. 
And at the midmost charging. Prince 

Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his 

breast 
And out beyond ; and then against his 

brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had broken 

on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle. 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd 

the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying 

him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of 

woman born 
The three gay suits of armour which they 

wore. 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits 
Of armour on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, ' Drive them 

on 
Before you ' ; and she drove them thro' 

the waste. 

He follow'd nearer : ruth began to 

work 
Against his anger in him, while he watch'd 
The being he loved best in all the world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken to 

her. 
And loosed in words of sudden fire the 

wrath 
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all 

within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her 

dead, 



356 



GERAINT AND ENID 



Than to cry ' Halt,' and to her own 

bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth 

the more 
That she could speak whom his own ear 

had heard 
Call herself false : and suffering thus he 

made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again. 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn -shafted oaks. 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd. 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than her 

lord, 
And shook her pulses, crying, ' Look, a 

prize ! 
Three horses and three goodly suits of 

arms. 
And all in charge of whom? a girl : set on, ' 
'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a 

knight.' 
The third, ' A craven ; how he hangs his 

head.' 
The giant answer'd merrily, 'Yea, but one? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon 

him.' 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 

said, 
' I will abide the coming of my lord. 
And I will tell him all their villainy. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his harm ? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me 

for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine.' 

And she abode his coming, and said to 

him 
With timid firmness, ' Have I leave to 

speak ? ' 
He said, ' Ye take it, speaking,' and she 

spoke. 



' There lurk three villains yonder in the 

wood. 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say 
That they will fall upon you while ye 

pass. ' 

To which he flung a wrathful answer 

back : 
' And if there were an hundred in the 

wood. 
And every man were larger-limb'd than I, \ 
And all at once should sally out upon me, • 
I sware it would not ruffle me so much | 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside, i 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' 

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only 

breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a 

breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down 

upon him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but 

Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd. 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet 

home, 
And then brake short, and down hiil 

enemy roll'd. 
And there lay still ; as he that tells the 

tale j 

Saw once a great piece of a promontory.! 
That had a sapling growing on it, slide 
From the long shore-cliff's windy wall.' 

to the beach, 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling! 

grew : 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven paii 
Of comrades making slowlier at tht. 

Prince, I 

When now they saw their bulwark fallen., 

stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound then 

more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for n: 

one. 
That listens near a torrent mountaii 

brook, 



GERAINT AND ENID 



357 



! All thro' the crash of the near cataracthears 
The drumming thunder of the huger fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to 

hear 
His voice in battle, and l>e kindled by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false pair 

who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an 

innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd 

the lance 
at pleased him best, and drew from 

those dead wolves 
air three gay suits of armour, each from 
each. 
And bound them on their horses, each on 

each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, ' Drive them on 
Before you,' and she drove them thro' the 
wood. 

He folio w'd nearer still : the pain she 
I had 

To keep them in the wild ways of the 

wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling 

arms. 
Together, served a little to disedge 
rhe sharpness of that pain about her 

heart : 
\nd they themselves, like creatures gently 

born 
^But into bad hands falTn, and now so long 
py bandits groom'd, prick'd their light 

ears, and felt 
|:ier lowfirmvoice and tendergovernment. 

' So thro' the green gloom of the wood 

they past, 
Vnd issuing under open heavens beheld 
|V little town with towers, upon a rock, 
Vnd close beneath, a meadow gemlike 

chased 
n the brown wild, and mowers mowing 

in it : 
\nd down a rocky pathway from the place 
'There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in 

his hand 



Bare victual for the mowers : and Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 
Then, moving downward to the meadow 

ground. 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by 

him, said, 
' Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so 

faint.' 
'Yea, wilHngly,' replied the youth; 'and 

thou. 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse, 
And only meet for mowers ' ; then set 

down 
His basket, and dismounting on the sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate them- 
selves. 
And Enid took a little delicately, 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure ; but 

Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. 
And when he found all empty, was 

amazed ; 
And ' Boy,' said he, ' I have eaten all, 

but take 
A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose 

the best.' 
He, reddening in extremity of delight, 
' JSIy lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 
' Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the 

Prince. 
' I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, 
' Not guerdon ; for myself can easily. 
While your good damsel rests, return, 

and fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our 

Earl; 
For these are his, and all the field is his, 
And I myself am his ; and I will tell 

him 
How great a man thou art : he loves to 

know 
When men of mark are in his territory : 
And he will have thee to his palace here. 
And serve thee costlier than with mowers' 

fare.' 

Then said Geraint, ' I wish no better 
fare : 
I never ate with angrier appetite 



358 



GERAINT AND ENID 



Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. 

And into no Earl's palace will I go. 

I know, God knows, too much of 

palaces ! 
And if he want me, let him come to me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the 

night, 
And stalling for the horses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let us 

know.' 

' Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad 

youth, and went. 
Held his head high, and thought himself 

a knight. 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd. 
Leading the horse, and they were left 

alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his 

errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let 

them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own 

false doom. 
That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 

sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth re- 

mark'd 
The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless. 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning 

scythe. 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, 
And all the windy clamour of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the 

grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's 

edge. 
And into many a listless annulet. 
Now over, now beneath her marriage 

ring. 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they 

went ; 
Where, after saying to her, ' If ye will. 
Call for the woman of the house,' to which 
She answer'd, ' Thanks, my lord ' ; the 

two remain'd 



Apart by all the chamber's width, and 

mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of 

birth. 
Or two wild men supporters of a shield, 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor 

glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along the 

street. 
And heel against the pavement echoing, 

burst 
Their drowse ; and either started while 

the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward to 

the wall. 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers. 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, 

Limours. 
He moving up with pliant courtliness. 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily. 
In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt 

hand, 
Found Enid with the corner of his eye, 
And knew her sitting sad and solitary. ; 
Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly 

cheer I 

To feed the sudden guest, and sump- j 

tuously 
According to his fashion, bad the host 
Call in what men soever were his friends, 
And feast with these in honour of their 

Earl ; 
' And care not for the cost ; the cost is \ 

mine.' [ 

And wine and food were brought, and ! 

Earl Limours j 

Drank till he jested with all ease, and told ) 
Free tales, and took the word and play'd 

upon it. 
And made it of two colours; for his talk. 
When wine and free companions kindltxi 

him. 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem 
Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to applause 



GERAINT AND ENID 



359 



Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd 

Limours, 
' Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, 

and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits apart, 
And seems so lonely ? ' ' My free leave,' 

he said ; 
' Get her to speak : she doth not speak to 

me. ' 
Then rose Limours, and looking at his 

feet, 

iLike him who tries the bridge he fears 
may fail, 
I Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisper- 
ingly : 

' Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid, my early and my only love, 
Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me 
wild — 
I What chance is this ? how is it I see you 
I here ? 

\ Ye are in my power at last, are in my 
; power. 

Yet fear me not : I call mine own self 

wild. 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
, Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. 
I thought, but that your father came 

between, 
In former days you saw me favourably. 
And if it were so do not keep it back : 
; Make me a little happier : let me know it : 
, Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost ? 
; Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you 
I are. 

i And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, 
' Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him. 
You come with no attendance, page or 

maid, 
I To serve you — doth he love you as of old ? 
I For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things they 

love. 
They would not make them laughable in 
all eyes, 
jNot while they loved them; and your 
! wretched dress, 

A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks 



Your story, that this man loves you no 

more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know it 

— pall'd— 
For I know men : nor will ye win him 

back, 
For the man's love once gone never 

returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of old : 
Good, speak the word : my followers ring 

him round : 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand : nay ; I do not mean 

blood : 
Nor need ye look so scared at what I say : 
My malice is no deeper than a moat, 
No stronger than a wall : there is the 

keep; 
He shall not cross us more ; speak but 

the word : 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover whom you ever own'd, 
I will make use of all the power I have. 
O pardon me ! the madness of that hour, 
When first I parted from thee, moves me 

yet.' 

At this the tender sound of his own 

voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd his 

eyes. 
Moist as they were, wine -heated from the 

feast ; 
And answer'd with such craft as women 

use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave ofTa chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and 

said : 

' Earl, if you love me as in former 

years. 
And do not practise on me, come with 

morn. 
And snatch me from him as by violence ; 
Leave me to-night : I am weary to the 

death.' 



36o 



GERAINT AND ENID 



Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd 
plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- 
amorous Earl, 
And the stout Prince bad him a loud 

good-night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his men, 
How Enid never loved a man but him, 
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence given. 
And that she now perforce must violate it, 
Held commune with herself, and while 

she held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly 

pleased 
To find him yet unwounded after fight, 
And hear him breathing low and equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, 

heap'd 
The pieces of his armour in one place, 
All to be there against a sudden need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, evermore 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and 

then 
Went slipping down horrible precipices, 
And strongly striking out her limbs 

awoke ; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at 

the door. 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning 

her ; 
Which was the red cock shouting to the 

light, 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 

world, 
And glimmer'd on his armour in the room. 
And once again she rose to look at it. 
But touch'd it unawares : jangling, the 

casque 
Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 
Then breaking his command of silence 

given, 
She told him all that Earl Limours had 

said, 
Except the passage that he loved her not ; 



Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet. 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and 

seem'd 
So justified by that necessity, 
That tho' he thought ' was it for him she 

wept 
In Devon ? ' he but gave a wrathful groan, 
Saying, ' Your sweet faces make good 

fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid him 

bring 
Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out 
Among the hea\y breathings of the 

house, 
And like a household Spirit at the walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and 

return'd : 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all 

unask'd. 
In silence, did him service as a squire ; 
Till issuing arm'd he found the host and i 

cried, 
* Thy reckoning, friend ? ' and ere he \ 

learnt it, ' Take j 

Five horses and their armours ' ; and the ■' 

host 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
' My lord, I scarce have spent the worth 

of one ! ' 
' Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the 

Prince, 
And then to Enid, ' Forward ! and to- 
day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially, 
What thing soever ye may hear, or see, 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 1 

To charge you) that ye speak not but { 

obey.' 

And Enid answer'd, 'Yea, my lord, , 

I know j 

Your wish, and would obey ; but riding i 

first, 
I hear the violent threats you do not 

hear, 
I see the danger which you cannot see : 
Then not to give you warning, that seems 

hard ; 
Almost beyond me : yet I would obey.' 



I 



GERAINT AND ENID 



361 



* Yea so,' said he, ' do it : be not too 

wise ; 
Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, 
Not all mismated with a yawning clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head and 

yours. 
With eyes to find you out however far. 
And ears to hear you even in his dreams.' 

With that he turn'd and look'd as 

keenly at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 
And that within her, which a wanton fool, 
Or hasty judger would have call'd her 

guilt. 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. 

Then forward by a way which, beaten 
broad, 
[Led from the territory of false Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd 

the Bull, 
kVent Enid with her sullen follower on. 
Dnce she look'd back, and when she saw 

him ride 
Viore near by many a rood than yester- 
1 morn, 

It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till 

Geraint 
Vaving an angry hand as who should 
! say 

Ye watch me,' sadden'd all her heart 
i again. 

jJut while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, 
rhe sound of many a heavily-galloping 

hoof 
-mote on her ear, and turning round she 

saw 
)ust, and the points of lances bicker in it. 
'hen not to disobey her lord's behest, 
\nd yet to give him warning, for he rode 
A.S if he heard not, moving back she held 
[ler finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
\X. which the warrior in his obstinacy, 
•>ecause she kept the letter of his word, 
Vas in a manner pleased, and turning, 

stood. 
i.nd in the moment after, wild Limours, 



Borne on a black horse, like a thunder- 
cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking 

storm, 
Half ridden off with by the thing he rode. 
And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 
Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, 

and bore 
Down by the length of lance and arm 

beyond 
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or 

dead, 
And overthrew the next that follow'd him. 
And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. 
But at the flash and motion of the man 
They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal 
Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 
Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on the 

sand, 
But if a man who stands upon the brink 
But lift a shining hand against the sun, 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; 
So, scared but at the motion of the man, 
Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, 
And left him lying in the public way ; 
So vanish friendships only made in wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled 

Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. ' Horse and man,' 

he said, 
' All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left : and I methinks till now 
Was honest — paid with horses and with 

arms ; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say ye, shall we strip him 

there 
Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough 
To bear his armour? shall we fast, or 

dine ? 
No ? — then do thou, being right honest, 

pray 
That we inay meet the horsemen of Earl 

Doorm, 



362 



GERAINT AND ENID 



I too would still be honest.' Thus he 

said : 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, 
And answering not one word, she led the 

way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it not, 
But coming back he learns it, and the loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to 

death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 
In combat with the follower of Limours, 
Bled underneath his armour secretly, 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
The Prince, without a word, from his 

horse fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his 

arms. 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound. 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blistering 

sun. 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her 

dear lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand could do. 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 

And many past, but none regarded her. 
For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer shower : 
One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him : 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms. 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Half whistling and half singing a coarse 

song. 
He drove the dust against her veillesseyes : 
Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 



The long way smoke beneath him in his 

fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted 

heel, 
And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, 
Wliile the great charger stood, grieved 

like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge Earl 

Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet 

beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey. 
Came riding with a hundred lances up ; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, 
Cried out with a big voice, ' Wliat, is he 

dead ? ' 
' No, no, not dead ! ' she answer'd in all 

haste. 
' Would some of your kind people take 

him up, 
And bear him hence out of this cruel sun ?! 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.' : 

Then said Earl Doorm : ' Well, if he 

be not dead. 
Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem a child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him : dead I 

or not, j 

Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of you, 
Here, take him up, and bear him to ourj 

hall : I 

An if he live, we will have him of ouri 

band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger too, ■ 
A noble one.' ' 

He spake, and past away, I 
But left two brawny spearmen, whoj 

advanced, ; 

Each growling like a dog, when his good 

bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boy^- 
Who love to vex him eating, and he fears < 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, 
Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians 

growl'd. 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, 



GERAINT AND ENID 



363 



Their chance of booty from the morning's 

raid, 
\ Yet raised and laid him on a Htter-bier, 

Such as they brought upon their forays out 
f For those that might be wounded ; laid 
I him on it 

: All in the hollow of his shield, and took 
And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him unled) 
And cast him and the bier in which he 

lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall. 
And then departed, hot in haste to join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as 

before. 
And cursing their lost time, and the dead 

man. 
And their own Earl, and their own souls, 

and her. 
They might as well have blest her : she 

was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, 
There in the naked hall, propping his 

head. 
And chafing his pale hands, and calling 

to him. 
Till at the last he waken'd from his swoon, 
And found his own dear bride propping 

his head, 
•And chafing his faint hands, and calling 

to him. ; 
And felt the warm tears falling on his face ; 
And said to his own heart, ' She weeps 

for me ' : 
u\jid yet lay still, and feign'd himself as 
t dead; 

'That he might prove her to the uttermost, 
lAnd say to his own heart, ' She weeps 
I for me.' 

I But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to 

the hall. 
;His lusty spearmen follow'd him with 
I noise : 

lEach hurling down a heap of things that 
i . rang 
lAgainst the pavement, cast his lance aside. 



And doff 'd his hehn : and then there 

flutter'd in. 
Half-bold, half- frighted, with dilated eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues. 
And mingled with the spearmen : and 

Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against 

the board, 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his 

spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and 

quarter beeves. 
And all the hall was dim with steam of 

flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat down 

at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked hall. 
Feeding like horses when you hear them 

feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he 

would. 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and 

found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember'd her, and how she 

wept ; 
And out of her there came a power upon 

him ; 
And rising on the sudden he said, ' Eat ! 
I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 
God's curse, it makes me mad to see you 

weep. 
Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had 

your good man. 
For were I dead who is it would weep 

for me ? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some colour in your 

cheek. 
There is not one among m}' gentlewomen 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be ruled. 
And I will do the thing I have not done, 
For ye shall share my earldom with me, 

girl, 
And we will live like two birds in one 
nest, 



3^4 



GERAINT AND ENID 



And I will fetch you forage from all 

fields, 
For I compel all creatures to my will.' 

He spoke : the brawny spearman let 

his cheek 
Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and 

turning stared ; 
While some, whose souls the old serpent 

long had drawn 
Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd 

leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's 

ear 
What shall not be recorded — women they. 
Women, or what had been those gracious 

things, 
But now desired the humbling of their 

best, 
Yea, would have help'd him to it : and 

all at once 
They hated her, who took no thought of 

them, 
But answer'd in low voice, her meek head 

yet 
Drooping, ' I pray you of your courtesy. 
He being as he is, to let me be.' 

She spake so low he hardly heard her 
speak, 

But like a mighty patron, satisfied 

With what himself had done so graci- 
ously, 

Assumed that she had thank'd him, add- 
ing, 'Yea, 

Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.' 

She answer'd meekly, ' How should I 
be glad 
Henceforth in all the world at anything, 
Until my lord arise and look upon me ? ' 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her 

talk. 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on 

her. 
And bare her by main violence to the 

board, 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, 

* Eat.' 



' No, no,' said Enid, vext, ' I will not 

eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise, 
And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he 

answer'd. ' Here ! ' 
(And fill'd a horn with wine and held it 

to her,) 
' Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, 

or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I myself, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can 

eat : 
Drink therefore and the wine will change [ 

your will.' 

'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I 

will not drink 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it. 
And drink with me ; and if he rise no 

more, 
I will not look at wine until I die.' 

At this he turn'd all red and paced his 
hall, 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper 

lip, 
And coming up close to her, said at last : 
' Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, 
Take warning : yonder man is surely 

dead ; 
And I compel all creatures to my will. 
Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore wail 

for one, 
Wlio put your beauty to this flout and 

scorn 
By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, 
Beholding how ye butt against my wish, 
That I forbear you thus : cross me no 

more. 
At least put off to please me this poor 

gown. 
This silken rag, this beggar - woman's 

weed : 
I love that beauty should go beautifully : 
For see ye not my gentlewomen here, 
How gay, how suited to the house of one 
Who loves that beauty should go beauti- 
fully ? 
Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : 

obey.' 



J 



GERAINT AND ENID 



365 



He spoke, and one among his gentle- 
women 
Display 'd a splendid silk of foreign loom, 
, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue 
j Play'd into green, and thicker down the 
i front 

'J With jewels than the sward with drops of 

idew, 
When all night long a cloud clings to the 
hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the day 
Strike where it clung : so thickly shone 
the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved 

[Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, 

With life-long injuries burning unavenged, 

And now their hour has come ; and Enid 

said : 

' In this poor gown my dear lord found 

me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's hall : 
In this poor gown I rode with him to 

court, 
A.nd there the Queen array'd me like the 

sun : 
tn this poor gown he bad me clothe 

myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal quest 
3f honour, where no honour can be 

gain'd : 
And this poor gown I will not cast aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
lA.nd bid me cast it. I have griefs enough : 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : 
I never loved, can never love but him : 
Y ea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, 
^e being as he is, to let me be.' 

Then strode the brute Earl up and 

down his hall, 
\jid took his russet beard between his 

teeth ; 
-ast, coming up quite close, and in his 

mood 

Crying, ' I count it of no more avail, 
pame, to be gentle than ungentle with 

you ; 
;"ake my salute, 'unknightly with flat hand, 
lowever lightly, smote her on the cheek. 



Then Enid, in her utter helplessness. 
And since she thought, ' He had not 

dared to do it, 
Except he surely knew my lord was dead,' 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap. 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' the 

wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at 

his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield), 
Made but a single bound, and with a 

sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a 

ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the 

floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted 

dead. 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man rise, 

and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

' Enid, I have used you worse than 

that dead man ; 
Done you more WTong : we both have 

undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice 

your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. 
And here I lay this penance on myself. 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you 

yestermorn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard 

you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true 

wife : 
I swear I will not ask your meaning in 

it: 
I do believe yourself against yourself. 
And will henceforward rather die than 

doubt.' 

And Enid could not say one tender 

word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : 
She only pray'd him, ' Fly, they will 

return 



366 



GERAINT AND ENID 



And slay you ; fly, your charger is with- 
out, 
My palfrey lost.' ' Then, Enid, shall you 

ride 
Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.' 
And moving out they found the stately 

horse. 
Who now no more a vassal to the thief, 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, 

and stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair : and 

she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, 
Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his 

foot 
She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd 

his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast 

her arms 
About him, and at once they rode away. 

And never yet, since high in Paradise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew. 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous 

hour 
Put hand to hand beneath her husband's 

heart, 
And felt him hers again : she did not 

weep. 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy 

mist 
Like that which kept the heart of Eden 

green 
Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
Yet not so misty were her meek blue 

eyes 
As not to see before them on the path. 
Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his 

lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of 

blood. 
She, with her mind all full of what had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger 'Slay not a dead 

man ! ' 



' The voice of Enid,' said the knight ; 

but she. 
Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and 

shriek'd again, 
' O cousin, slay not him who gave you 

life.' 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake : 
' My lord Geraint, I greet you with all 

love ; 
I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon 

him. 
Who love you. Prince, with something 

of the love 
\Vherewith we love the Heaven that 

chastens us. 
P'or once, when I was up so high in pride 
That I was halfway down the slope to 

Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I my- 
self 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to 

Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding 

him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his powers. 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the 

King.' 

' He hears the judgment of the King 

of kings,' 
Cried the wan Prince ; ' and lo, the 

powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd,' and he pointed to the field, 
Where, huddled here and there on mound 

and knoll. 
Were men and women staring and aghast, 
While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier 

told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his 

hall. 
But when the knight besought him, 

' Follow me. 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's 

own ear 



GERAINT AND ENID 



367 



I Speak what has chanced ; ye surely have 

endured 
Strange chances here alone ' ; that other 

flush'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in reply, 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, 
And after madness acted question ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, ' If ye will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,' 
* Enough,' he said, ' I follow,' and the}' 

went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter 'd in the field. 
And one from Edyrn. Every now and 

then, 
When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old fires have broken, men 

may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said : 

' Fair and dear cousin, you that most 

had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless cause to 

make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood 
Break into furious flame ; being repulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 

wrought 
Until I overturn'd him ; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a paramour ; 
Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism, 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself 
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in these 

jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I Hved in hope that sometime you would 

come 
To these my lists with him whom best 

you loved ; 
And there, poor cousin, with your meek 

blue eyes. 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd Heaven, 
Behold me overturn and trample on him. 



Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd 

to me, 
I should not less have kill'd him. And 

you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your own 

true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 
Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 
My proud self, and my purpose three 

years old. 
And set his foot upon me, and give me 

life. 
There was I broken down ; there was I 

saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating 

the life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid upon 

me 
Was but to rest awhile within her court ; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged. 
And waiting to be treated like a wolf, 
Because I knew my deeds were known, 

I found. 
Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, 
Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former life. 
And find that it had been the wolfs in- 
deed : 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high 

saint, 
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory. 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness. 
Which, when it weds with manhood, 

makes a man. 
And you were often there about the Queen, 
But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saw ; 
Nor did I care or dare to speak with you. 
But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; 
And fear not, cousin ; I am changed 
indeed.' 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend or 

foe, 
There most in those who most have done 

them ill. 



368 



GERAINT AND ENID 



And when they reach'd the camp the 

King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding 

her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a 

word, 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
In converse for a little, and return'd. 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from 

horse. 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother- 
like, 
And show'd an empty tent allotted her. 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and 
said : 

' Prince, when of late ye pray'd me for 

my leave 
To move to your own land, and there 

defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with some 

reproof. 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate and 

be. 
By having look'd too much thro' alien 

eyes. 
And wrought too long with delegated 

hands. 
Not used mine own : but now behold me 

come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all my 

realm, 
With Edyrn and with others : have ye 

look'd 
At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly 

changed ? 
This work of his is great and wonderful. 
His very face with change of heart is 

changed. 
The world will not believe a man repents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly 

right. 
Full seldom doth a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 



As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table 

Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him every- 
way 
One of our noblest, our most valorous, 
Sanest and most obedient : and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself 
After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand -fold more great and wonderful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking his 

life. 
My subject with my subjects under him, 
Should make an onslaught single on a 

realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to the 
death.' 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the 

Prince, and felt 
His work was neither great nor wonderful, 
And past to Enid's tent ; and thither came 
The King's own leech to look into his 

hurt; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and there 
Her constant motion round him, and the 

breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper love, 
As the south-west that blowing Bala lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his 
hurt, 

The blameless King went forth and cast 
his eyes 

On each of all whom Uther left in charge 

Long since, to guard the justice of the 
King : 

He look'd and found them wanting ; and 
as now 

Men weed the white horse on the Berk- 
shire hills 

To keep him bright and clean as hereto- 
fore. 

He rooted out the slothful officer 

Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at 
wrong, 



BALIN AND BALAN 



369 



And in their chairs set up a stronger race 
With hearts and hands, and sent a thou- 
sand men 
To till the wastes, and moving everywhere 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the law, 
And broke the bandit holds and cleansed 
the land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole again, 

they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more em- 
braced her friend, 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take again 
That comfort from their converse which 

he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was breathed 

upon. 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them to the 

shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land. 
And there he kept the justice of the King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 
Applauded, and the spitefal whisper died : 
And being ever foremost in the chase, 
And victor at the tilt and tournament. 
They call'd him the great Prince and man 

of men. 
But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Geraints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more, 
But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless King. 

BALIN AND BALAN 

Pellam the King, who held and lost with 

Lot 
In that first war, and had his realm restored 
But render'd tributary, fail'd of late 
To send his tribute ; wherefore Arthur 

call'd 
T 



His treasurer, one of many years, and 

spake, 
' Go thou with him and him and bring it 

to us. 
Lest we should set one truer on his throne. 
Man^s word is God in man.' 

Plis Baron said 
' We go but harken : there be two strange 

knights 
Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side, 
A mile beneath the forest, challenging 
And overthrowing every knight who 

comes. 
Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass, 
And send them to thee ? ' 

Arthur laugh'd upon him. 
' Old friend, too old to be so young, 

depart, 
Delay not thou for ought, but let them 

sit, 
Until they find a lustier than themselves.' 

So these departed. Early, one fair 

dawn, 
The light-wing'd spirit of his youth 

return'd 
On Arthur's heart ; he arm'd himself and 

went. 
So coming to the fountain -side beheld 
Balin and Balan sitting statuelike, 
Brethren, to right and left the spring, that 

down. 
From underneath a plume of lady-fern, 
Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom 

of it. 
And on the right of Balin Balin's horse 
Was fast beside an alder, on the left 
Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree. 
' Fair Sirs,' said Arthur, ' wherefore sit 

ye here ? ' 
Balin and Balan answer'd ' For the sake 
Of glory ; we be mightier men than all 
In Arthur's court ; that also have we 

proved ; 
For whatsoever knight against us came 
Or I or he have easily overthrown.' 
'I too,' said Arthur, 'am of Arthur's 

hall, 

2 B 



370 



BALIN AND BALAN 



But rather proven in his Paynim wars 
Than famous jousts ; but see, or proven 

or not, 
Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.' 
And Arthur lightly smote the brethren 

down. 
And lightly so return'd, and no man knew. 

Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside 
The carolling water set themselves again, 
And spake no word until the shadow 

turn'd ; 
When from the fringe of coppice round 

them burst 
A spangled pursuivant, and crying ' Sirs, 
Rise, follow ! ye be sent for by the 

King,' 
They follow'd ; whom when Arthur seeing 

ask'd 
' Tell me your names ; why sat ye by the 

well ? ' 
Balin the stillness of a minute broke 
Saying ' An unmelodious name to thee, 
Balin, "the Savage" — that addition 

thine — 
My brother and my better, this man here, 
Balan. I smote upon the naked skull 
A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand 
Was gauntleted, half slew him ; for I 

heard 
He had spoken evil of me ; thy just wrath 
Sent me a three-years' exile from thine 

eyes. 
I have not lived my life delightsomely : 
For I that did that violence to thy thrall. 
Had often wrought some fury on myself. 
Saving for Balan : those three kingless 

years 
Have past — were wormwood-bitter to me. 

King, 
Methought that if we sat beside the well. 
And hurl'd to ground what knight soever 

spurr'd 
Against us, thou would'st take me gladlier 

back, 
And make, as ten-times worthier to be 

thine 
Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I 

have said. 
Not so — not all. A man of thine to-day 



Abash'd us both, and brake my boast. 

Thy will ? ' 
Said Arthur ' Thou hast ever spoken truth ; 
Thy too fierce manhood would not let 

thee lie. 
Rise, my true knight. As children learn, 

be thou 
Wiser for falling ! walk with me, and 

move 
To music with thine Order and the King. 
Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, 

stands 
Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again ! ' 

Thereafter, when Sir Balin enter'd hall. 
The Lost one Found was greeted as in 

Heaven 
With joy that blazed itself in woodland 

wealth 
Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers. 
Along the walls and down the board ; 

they sat, 
And cup clash'd cup ; they drank and 

some one sang, 
Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, where- 
upon 
Their common shout in chorus, mount- , 

ing, made 
Those banners of twelve battles overhead 
Stir, as they stirr'd of old, when Arthur's 

host 
Proclaim'd him Victor, and the day was 

won. 

Then Balan added to their Order lived 
A wealthier life than heretofore with these 
And Balin, till their embassage return'd. 

' Sir King ' they brought report ' we 

hardly found, 
So bush'd about it is with gloom, the hall 
Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once 
A Christless foe of thine as ever dash'd 
Horse against horse ; but seeing that thy 

realm 
Hath prosper'd in the name of Christ, the 

King 
Took, as in rival heat, to holy things ; 
And finds himself descended from the 

Saint 



BALIN AND BALAN 



311 



Arimathaean Joseph ; him who first 

Brought the great faith to Britain over 
seas ; 

He boasts his Hfe as purer than thine 
own ; 

Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat ; 

Hath push'd aside his faithful wife, nor 
lets 

Or dame or damsel enter at his gates 

Lest he should be polluted. This gray 
King 

Show'd us a shrine wherein were wonders 
— yea — 

Rich arks with priceless bones of martyr- 
dom, 

Thorns of the crown and shivers of the 
cross, 

And therewithal (for thus he told us) 
brought 

By holy Joseph hither, that same spear 

Wherewith the Roman pierced the side 
of Christ. 

He much amazed us ; after, when we 
sought 

The tribute, answer'd " I have quite fore- 
gone 

All matters of this world : Garlon, mine 
heir. 

Of him demand it," which this Garlon gave 

With much ado, railing at thine and thee. 

* But when we left, in those deep woods 

we found 
A knight of thine spear -stricken from 

behind. 
Dead, whom we buried ; more than one 

of us 
Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman 

there 
Reported of some demon in the woods 
Was once a man, who driven by evil 

tongues 
From all his fellows, lived alone, and came 
To learn black magic, and to hate his 

kind 
With such a hate, that when he died, his 

soul 
Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life 
Was wounded by blind tongues he saw 

not whence, 



Strikes from behind. This woodman 

show'd the cave 
From which he sallies, and wherein he 

dwelt. 
We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no 

more.' 

Then Arthur, ' Let who goes before 

me, see 
He do nof fall behind me : foully slain 
And villainously ! who will hunt for me 
This demon of the woods ? ' Said Balan, 

'I !' 
So claim'd the quest and rode away, but 

first, 
Embracing Balin, ' Good my brother, 

hear ! 
Let not thy moods prevail, when I am 

gone 
Who used to lay them ! hold them outer 

fiends. 
Who leap at thee to tear thee ; shake 

them aside. 
Dreams ruling when wit sleeps ! yea, but 

to dream 
That any of these would wrong thee, 

wrongs thyself. 
Witness their flowery welcome. Bound 

are they 
To speak no evil. Truly save for fears, 
My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship 
Would make me wholly blest : thou one 

of them. 
Be one indeed : consider them, and all 
Their bearing in their common bond of 

love^ 
No more of hatred than in Heaven itself. 
No more of jealousy than in Paradise.' 

So Balan warn'd, and went ; Balin 

remain'd : 
Who — for but three brief moons had 

glanced away 
From being knighted till he smote the 

thrall. 
And faded from the presence into years 
Of exile — now would strictlier set himself 
To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy. 
Manhood, and knighthood ; wherefore 

hover'd round 



372 



BALIN AND BALAN 



Lancelot, but when he mark'd his high 

sweet smile 
In passing, and a transitory word 
Make knight or churl or child or damsel 

seem 
From being smiled at happier in them- 
selves — 
Sigh'd, as a boy lame-born beneath a 

height, 
That glooms his valley, sighs to see the 

peak 
Sun-flush'd, or touch at night the 

northern star ; 
For one from out his village lately 

climb'd 
And brought report of azure lands and 

fair, 
Far seen to left and right ; and he him- 
self 
Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred 

feet 
Up from the base : so Balin marvelling 

oft 
How far beyond him Lancelot seem'd to 

move, 
Groan'd, and at times would mutter, 

' These be gifts, 
Born with the blood, not learnable, divine. 
Beyond my reach. Well had I foughten 

— well — 
In those fierce wars, struck hard — and 

had I crown'd 
With my slain self the heaps of whom I 

slew — 
So — better ! — But this worship of the 

Queen, 
That honour too wherein she holds him 

— this, 
This was the sunshine that hath given the 

man 
A growth, a name that branches o'er the 

rest. 
And strength against all odds, and what 

the King 
So prizes — overprizes — gentleness. 
Her likewise would I worship an I might. 
I never can be close with her, as he 
That brought her hither. Shall I pray 

the King 
To let me bear some token of his Queen 



Whereon to gaze, remembering her — 

forget 
My heats and violences ? live afresh ? 
What, if the Queen disdain'd to grant it ! 

nay 
Being so stately-gentle, would she make 
My darkness blackness ? and with how 

sweet grace 
She greeted my return ! Bold will I 

be- 
Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, 
In lieu of this rough beast upon my 

shield, 
Langued gules, and tooth'd with grinning 

savagery. ' 

And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought 

him, said 
' What wilt thou bear ? ' Balin was bold, 

and ask'd 
To bear her own crown-royal upon shield, 
Whereat she smiled and turn'd her to the 

King, 
Who answer'd ' Thou shalt put the crown 

to use. 
The crown is but the shadow of the King, 
And this a shadow's shadow, let him 

have it. 
So this will help him of his violences ! ' 
' No shadow ' said Sir Balin ' O my 

Queen, 
But light to me ! no shadow, O my King, 
But golden earnest of a gentler life ! ' 

So Balin bare the crown, and all the 

knights 
Approved him, and the Queen, and all 

the world 
Made music, and he felt his being move 
In music with his Order, and the King. 

The nightingale, full-toned in middle 

May, 
Hath ever and anon a note so thin 
It seems another voice in other groves ; 
Thus, after some quick burst of sudden 

wrath. 
The music m him seem'd to change, and 

grow 
Faint and far-off. 



BALIN AND BALAN 



373 



And once he saw the thrall 
His passion half had gauntleted to death, 
That causer of his banishment and shame, 
Smile at him, as he deem'd, presump- 
tuously : 
His arm half rose to strike again, but 

fell: 
The memory of that cognizance on shield 
Weighted it down, but in himself he 
moan'd : 

' Too high this mount of Camelot for 

me : 
These high-set courtesies are not for me. 
Shall I not rather prove the worse for 

these ? 
Fierier and stormier from restraining, 

break 
Into some madness ev'n before the 

Queen ? ' 

Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain 

home. 
And glancing on the window, when the 

gloom 
Of twilight deepens round it, seems a 

flame 
That rages in the woodland far below, 
So when his moods were darken'd, court 

and King 
And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's 

hall 
Shadow'd an angry distance : yet he 

strove 
To learn the graces of their Table, fought 
Hard with himself, and seem'd at length 

in peace. 

Then chanced, one morning, that Sir 

Balin sat 
Close-bower'd in that garden nigh the 

hall. 
A walk of roses ran from door to door ; 
A walk of hlies crost it to the bower : 
And down that range of roses the great 

Queen 
Came with slow steps, the morning on 

her face ; 
And all in shadow from the counter door 
Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once, 



As if he saw not, glanced aside, and 

paced 
The long white walk of lilies toward the 

bower. 
Follow'd the Queen ; Sir Balin heard her 

' Prince, 
Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, 
As pass without good morrow to thy 

Queen ? ' 
To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on 

earth, 
* Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.' 
' Yea so ' she said ' but so to pass me 

by- 
So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself. 
Whom all men rate the king of courtesy. 
Let be : ye stand, fair lord, as in a 

dream.' 

Then Lancelot with his hand among 

the flowers 
' Yea — for a dream. Last night me- 

thought I saw 
That maiden Saint who stands with lily 

in hand 
In yonder shrine. All round her prest 

the dark. 
And all the light upon her silver face 
Flow'd from the spiritual lily that she 

held. 
Lo ! these her emblems drew mine eyes 

— away : 
For see, how perfect-pure ! As light a 

flush 
As hardly tints the blossom of the quince 
Would mar their charm of stainless 

maidenhood.' 

' Sweeter to me ' she said ' this garden 

rose 
Deep-hued and many -folded ! sweeter 

still 
The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom 

of May. 
Prince, we have ridd'n before among the 

flowers 
In those fair days — not all as cool as 

these, 
Tho' season -earlier. Art thou sad? or 

sick ? 



374 



BALIN AND BALAN 



Our noble King will send thee his own 

leech — 
Sick ? or for any matter anger'd at me ? ' 

Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes ; 

they dwelt 
Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall : 

her hue 
Changed at his gaze : so turning side by 

side 
They past, and Balin started from his 

bower. 

' Queen ? subject ? but I see not what 

I see. 
Damsel and lover ? hear not what I 

hear. 
My father hath begotten me in his wrath. 
I suffer from the things before me, know, 
Learn nothing ; am not worthy to be 

knight ; 
A churl, a clown ! ' and in him gloom on 

gloom 
Deepen'd : he sharply caught his lance 

and shield. 
Nor stay'd to crave permission of the 

King, 
But, mad for strange adventure, dash'd 

away. 

He took the selfsame track as Balan, 

saw 
The fountain where they sat together, 

sigh'd 
' Was I not better there with him ? ' and 

rode 
The skyless woods, but under open blue 
Came on the hoarhead woodman at a 

bough 
Wearily hewing. ' Churl, thine axe ! ' 

he cried, 
Descended, and disjointed it at a blow : 
To whom the woodman utter'd wonder- 

ingly 
* Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of 

these woods 
If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin 

cried 
' Him, or the viler devil who plays his 

part, 



To lay that devil would lay the Devil in 

me.' 
' Nay ' said the churl, ' our devil is a 

truth, 
I saw the flash of him but yestereven. 
And some do say that our Sir Garlon too 
Hath learn'd black magic, and to ride 

unseen. 
Look to the cave.' But Balin answer'd 

him 
' Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl, 
Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving 

him. 
Now with slack rein and careless of him- 
self. 
Now with dug spur and raving at him- 
self. 
Now with droopt brow down the long 

glades he rode ; 
So mark'd not on his right a cavern-chasm 
Yaw^n over darkness, where, nor far 

within, 
The whole day died, but, dying, gleam'd 

on rocks 
Roof-pendent, sharp ; and others from 

the floor, 
Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of 

night 
Wliereout the Demon issued up from 

Hell. 
He mark'd not this, but blind and deaf 

to all 
Save that chain'd rage, which ever yelpt 

within. 
Past eastward from the falling sun. At 

once 
He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud 
And tremble, and then the shadow of a 

spear. 
Shot from behind him, ran along the 

ground. 
Sideways he started from the path, and 

saw, 
With pointed lance as if to pierce, a 

shape, 
A light of armour by him flash, and 

pass 
And vanish in the woods ; and follow'd 

this, 
But all so blind in rage that unawares 



BALIN AND BALAN 



375 



He burst his lance against a forest bough, 
Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and 

fled 
Far, till the castle of a King, the hall 
Of Pellani, lichen-bearded, grayly draped 
With streaming grass, appear'd, low-built 

but strong ; 
The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss. 
The battlement overtopt with ivytods, 
A home of bats, in every tower an owl. 

Then spake the men of Pellam crying 
' Lord, 
Why wear ye this crown-royal upon 

shield?' 
Said Balin ' For the fairest and the best 
Of ladies living gave me this to bear.' 
So stall'd his horse, and strode across the 

court, 
But found the greetings both of knight 

and King 
Faint in the low dark hall of banquet : 

leaves 
Laid their green faces flat against the 

panes. 
Sprays grated, and the canker'd boughs 

without 
Whined in the wood ; for all was hush'd 

within, 
Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise 

ask'd 
* Why wear ye that crown- royal ? ' Balin 

said 
' The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, 

and all, 
As fairest, best and purest, granted me 
To bear it ! ' Such a sound (for Arthur's 

knights 
Were hated strangers in the hall) as 

makes 
The white swan -mother, sitting, when she 

hears 
A strange knee rustle thro' her secret 

reeds, 
Made Garlon, hissing ; then he sourly 

smiled. 
' Fairest I grant her : I have seen ; but 

best, 
Best, purest? thoic from Arthur's hall, 
and yet 



So simple ! hast thou eyes, or if, are these 
So far besotted that they fail to see 
This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret 

shame ? 
Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes. ' 

A goblet on the board by Balin, boss'd 
With holy Joseph's legend, on his right 
Stood, all of massiest bronze : one side 

had sea 
And ship and sail and angels blowing on 

it: 
And one was rough with wattling, and 

the walls 
Of that low church he built at Glaston- 
bury. 
This Balin graspt, but while in act to 

hurl. 
Thro' memory of that token on the 

shield 
Relax'd his hold : ' I will be gentle ' he 

thought 
' And passing gentle ' caught his hand 

away 
Then fiercely to Sir Garlon ' Eyes have I 
That saw to-day the shadow of a spear. 
Shot from behind me, run along the 

ground ; 
Eyes too that long have watch'd how 

Lancelot draws 
From homage to the best and purest, 

might, 
Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly 

thine. 
Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst 

endure 
To mouth so huge a foulness — to thy 

guest. 
Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk ! 
Let be ! no more ! ' 

But not the less by night 

The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his 
rest, 

Stung him in dreams. At length, and 
dim thro' leaves 

Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, 
and old boughs 

Whined in the wood. He rose, de- 
scended, met 



376 



BALIN AND BALAN 



The scorner in the castle court, and fain, 
For hate and loathing, would have past 

him by ; 
But when Sir Garlon utter'd mocking- 

wise ; 
' What, wear ye still that same crown - 

scandalous ? ' 
His countenance blacken'd, and his 

forehead veins 
Bloated, and branch'd ; and tearing out 

of sheath 
The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery ' Ha ! 
So thou be shadow, here I make thee 

ghost,' 
Hard upon helm smote him, and the 

blade flew 
Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the 

stones. 
Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, 

fell, 
And Balin by the banneret of his helm 
Dragg'd him, and struck, but from the 

castle a cry 
Sounded across the court, and — men-at- 
arms, 
A score with pointed lances, making at 

him — 
He dash'd the pummel at the foremost 

face. 
Beneath a low door dipt, and made his 

feet 
Wings thro' a glimmering gallery, till he 

mark'd 
The portal of King Pellam's chapel wide 
And inward to the wall ; he stept behind ; 
Thence in a moment heard them pass 

like wolves 
Howling ; but while he stared about the 

shrine. 
In which he scarce could spy the Christ 

for Saints, 
Beheld before a golden altar lie 
The longest lance his eyes had ever seen. 
Point-painted red ; and seizing thereupon 
Push'd thro' an open casement down, 

lean'd on it. 
Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth ; 
Then hand at ear, and barkening from 

what side 
The blindfold rummage buried in the walls 



Might echo, ran the counter path, and 

found 
His charger, mounted on him and away. 
An arrow whizz'd to the right, one to 

the left, 
One overhead ; and Pellam's feeble cry 
' Stay, stay him ! he defileth heavenly 

things 
With earthly uses' — made him quickly 

dive 
Beneath the boughs, and race thro' many 

a mile 
Of dense and open, till his goodly horse. 
Arising wearily at a fallen oak. 
Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to 

ground. 

Half- wroth he had not ended, but all 

glad. 
Knightlike, to find his charger yet un- 

lamed. 
Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck, 
Stared at the priceless cognizance, and 

thought 
' I have shamed thee so that now thou 

shamest me, 
Thee will I bear no more,' high on a 

branch 
Plung it, and turn'd aside into the woods, 
And there in gloom cast himself all 

along. 
Moaning ' My violences, my violences ! ' 

But now the wholesome music of the 

wood 
Was dumb'd by one from out the hall of 

Mark 
A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode 
The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her 

Squire. 

'The fire of Heaven has kill'd the barren 

cold, 
And kindled all the plain and all the 

wold. 
The new leaf ever pushes off the old. 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 

Hell. 

' Old priest, who mumble worship in 
your quire — 



BALIN AND BALAN 



377 



Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's 

desire, 
Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire ! 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 

Hell. 

' The fire of Heaven is on the dusty 

ways. 
The wayside blossoms open to the blaze. 
The whole wood- world is one full peal 

of praise. 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 

Hell. 

' The fire of Heaven is lord of all things 

good, 
And starve not thou this fire within thy 

blood, 
But follow Vivien thro' the fiery flood ! 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 

Hell ! ' 

Then turning to her Squire ' This fire 

of Heaven, 
This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again. 
And beat the cross to earth, and break 

the King 
And all his Table.' 

Then they reach'd a glade. 
Where under one long lane of cloudless 

air 
Before another wood, the royal crown 
Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm 
Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her 

Squire ; 
Amazed were these ; ' Lo there ' she 

cried — ' a crown — 
Borne by some high lord -prince of 

Arthur's hall. 
And there a horse ! the rider ? where is 

he? 
See, yonder lies one dead within the 

wood. 
Not dead ; he stirs ! — but sleeping. I 

will speak. 
Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet 

rest. 
Not, doubtless, all unearn'd by noble 

deeds. 



But bounden art thou, if from Arthur's 

hall. 
To help the weak. Behold, I fly from 

shame, 
A lustful King, who sought to win my 

love 
Thro' evil ways : the knight, with whom 

I rode, 
Hath suffer'd misadventure, and my 

squire 
Hath in him small defence ; but thou, 

Sir Prince, 
Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King, 
Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid, 
To get me shelter for my maidenhood. 
I charge thee by that crown upon thy 

shield. 
And by the great Queen's name, arise 

and hence.' 

And Balin rose, ' Thither no more ! 

nor Prince 
Nor knight am I, but one that hath 

defamed 
The cognizance she gave me : here I 

dwell 
Savage among the savage woods, here 

die — 
Die : let the wolves' black maws en- 

sepulchre 
Their brother beast, whose anger was his 

lord. 
O me, that such a name as Guinevere's, 
Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted 

up, 
And been thereby uplifted, should thro' 

me. 
My violence, and my villainy, come to 

sham^.' 

Thereat she suddenly laugh'd and 

shrill, anon 
Sigh'd all as suddenly. Said Balin to her 
' Is this thy courtesy — to mock me, ha ? 
Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again 

she sigh'd 
' Pardon, sweet lord ! we maidens often 

laugh 
When sick at heart, when rather we 

should weep. 



378 



BALIN AND BALAN 



I knew thee wrong'd. I brake upon thy 

rest, 
And now full loth am I to break thy 

dream, 
But thou art man, and canst abide a truth, 
Tho' bitter. Hither, boy — and mark me 

well. 
Dost thou remember at Caerleon once — 
A year ago — nay, then I love thee not — 
Ay, thou rememberest well — one summer 

dawn — 
By the great tower — Caerleon upon 

Usk— 
Nay, truly we were hidden : this fair 

lord. 
The flower of all their vestal knighthood, 

knelt 
la amorous homage — knelt — what else ? 

— O ay 
Knelt, and drew down from out his 

night-black hair 
And mumbled that white hand whose 

ring'd caress 
Had wander'd from her own King's 

golden head. 
And lost itself in darkness, till she 

cried — 
I thought the great tower would crash 

down on both — 
" Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on 

the lips. 
Thou art my King." This lad, whose 

lightest word 
Is mere white truth in simple nakedness, 
Saw them embrace : he reddens, cannot 

speak. 
So bashful, he ! but all the maiden Saints, 
The deathless mother -maidenhood of 

Heaven, 
Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with 

me ! 
Talk not of shame ! thou canst not, an 

thou would'st. 
Do these more shame than these have 

done themselves.' 

She lied with ease ; but horror-stricken 
he. 
Remembering that dark bower at Camelot, 
Breathed in a dismal whisper ' It is truth.' 



Sunnily she smiled ' And even in this 

lone w^ood, 
Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper 

this. 
Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods 

have tongues, 
As walls have ears : but thou shalt go 

with me. 
And we will speak at first exceeding 

low. 
Meet is it the good King be not deceived. 
See now, I set thee high on vantage 

ground. 
From whence to watch the time, and 

eagle-like 
Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the 

Queen.' 

She ceased ; his evil spirit upon him 

leapt, 
He ground his teeth together, sprang 

with a yell. 
Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, • 

the shield. 
Drove his mail'd heel athwart the royal 

crown, f 

Stampt all into defacement, hurl'd it from 

him 
Among the forest weeds, and cursed the 

tale. 
The told-of, and the teller. 

That weird yell, L 
Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or 

beast, 
Thrill'd thro' the woods ; and Balan 

lurking there 
(His quest was unaccomplish'd) heard 

and thought 
' The scream of that Wood-devil I came 

to quell ! ' 
Then nearing * Lo ! he hath slain some 

brother-knight, 
And tramples on the goodly shield to 

show 
His loathing of our Order and the Queen. 
My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil 

or man 
Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balin spake 

not word. 



BALIN AND BALAN 



379 



3ut snatch'd a sudden buckler from the 

Squire, 
\nd vaulted on his horse, and so they 

crash'd 

l[n onset, and King Pellam's holy spear, 
.-deputed to be red with sinless blood, 
Redden'd at once with sinful, for the 

point 
A.cross the maiden shield of Balan prick'd 
rhe hauberk to the flesh ; and Balin's 

horse 
Was wearied to the death, and, when 

they clash 'd, 
Rolling back upon Bahn, crush'd the man 
[nward, and either fell, and swoon'd 

away. 

Then to her Squire mutter'd the 

damsel ' Fools ! 
rhis fellow hath wrought some foulness 

with his Queen : 
Else never had he borne her crown, nor 

raved 
A.nd thus foam'd over at a rival name : 
But thou^ Sir Chick, that scarce hast 

broken shell, 
Art yet half- yolk, not even come to 

down — 
VVho never sawest Caerleon upon Usk — • 
And yet hast often pleaded for my love — 
See what I see, be thou where I have 

been. 
Or else Sir Chick — dismount and loose 

their casques 
I fain would know what manner of men 

they be.' 
And when the Squire had loosed them, 

' Goodly ! — look ! 
They might have cropt the myriad flower 

of May, 
And butt each other here, like brainless 

bulls, 
Dead for one heifer ! ' 

Then the gentle Squire 
* I hold them happy, so they died for 

love : 
And, Vivien, tho' ye beat me like your 

dog, 
I too could die, as now I live, for thee.' 



' Live on. Sir Boy,' she cried. ' I 

better prize 
The living dog than the dead lion : away ! 
I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.' 
Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak. 
And bounding forward ' Leave them to 

the wolves.' 

But when their foreheads felt the cool- 
ing air, 
Balin first woke, and seeing that true face, 
Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan, 
Crawl'd slowly with low moans to where 

he lay. 
And on his dying brother cast himself 
Dying ; and he lifted faint eyes ; he felt 
One near him ; all at once they found the 

world. 
Staring wild-wide ; then wnth a childlike 

wail, 
And drawing down the dim disastrous 

brow 
That o'er him hung, he kiss'd it, moan'd 
and spake ; 

' O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died 
To save thy life, have brought thee to thy 

death. 
Why had ye not the shield I knew ? and 

why 
Trampled ye thus on that which bare the 

Crown ? ' 

Then Balin told him brokenly, and in 
gasps. 
All that had chanced, and Balan moan'd 
again. 

' Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's 

hall : 
This Garlon mock'd me, but I heeded 

not. 
And one said " Eat in peace ! a liar is he, 
And hates thee for the tribute ! " this 

good knight 
Told me, that twice a wanton damsel 

came, 
And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates. 
Whom Pellam drove away with holy 

heat. 



38o 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



I well believe this damsel, and the one 
Who stood beside thee even now, the 

same. 
" She dwells among the woods " he said 

"and meets 
And dallies with him in the Mouth of 

Hell." 
Foul are their lives ; foul are their lips : 

they lied. 
Pure as our own true Mother is our 

Queen.' 

* O brother ' answer'd Balin ' woe is 

me ! 
My madness all thy life has been thy 

doom, 
Thy curse, and darken'd all thy day ; 

and now 
The night has come. I scarce can see 

thee now. 
Goodnight ! for we shall never bid again 
Goodmorrow — Dark my doom was here, 

and dark 
It will be there. I see thee now no 

more. 
I would not mine again should darken 

thine, 
Goodnight, true brother.' 

Balan answer'd low 

' Goodnight, true brother here ! good- 
morrow there ! 

We two were born together, and we 
die 

Together by one doom ' : and while he 
spoke 

Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept 
the sleep 

With Balin, either lock'd in cither's arm. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 

A STORM was coming, but the winds 

were still. 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old 
It look'd a tower of ivied masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 



For he that always bare in bitter 

grudge 
The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark 
The Cornish King, had heard a wandering 

voice, 
A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm 
Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say 
That out of naked knightlike purity 
Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl 
But the great Queen herself, fought in her 

name, 
Sware by her — vows like theirs, that high 

in heaven 
Love most, but neither marry, nor are 

given 
In marriage, angels of our Lord's report. 

He ceased, and then — for Vivien 
sweetly said 
(She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark), 
' And is the fair example foUow'd, Sir, 
In Arthur's household ? ' — answer'd inno- 
cently : 

' Ay, by some few — ay, truly — youths 

that hold 
It more beseems the perfect virgin knight 
To worship woman as true wife beyond 
All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. 
They place their pride in Lancelot and 

the Queen. 
So passionate for an utter purity 
Beyond the limit of their bond, are these, 
For Arthur bound them not to singleness. 
Brave hearts and clean ! and yet — God 

guide them — young.' 

Then Mark was half in heart to hurl 

his cup 
Straight at the speaker, but forbore : he 

rose 
To leave the hall, and, Vivien following 

him, 
Turn'd to her : ' Here are snakes within 

the grass ; 
And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear 
The monkish manhood, and the mask of 

pure 
Worn by this court, can stir them till they 

sting. ' 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



383 



'{Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy 
j mood 

[With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken 

voice. 
And flutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who 

prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at 

which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by : 
But one had watch'd, and had not held 

his peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blameless 

King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those 

times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their 

arts. 
Had built the King his havens, ships, 

and halls. 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry 

heavens ; 
The people call'd him Wizard ; whom at 

first 
She play'd about with slight and sprightly 

talk. 
And vivid smiles, and faintly - venom'd 

points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing 

there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, the 

Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, and 

play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unloveable, and 

laugh 
As those that watch a kitten ; thus he 

grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and 

she. 
Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd, 
Began to break her sports with graver fits, 
Turn red or pale, would often when they 

met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old 

man. 



Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at 

times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for love. 
And half beHeve her true : for thus at 

times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 

Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy ; 
He walk'd with dreams and darkness, 

and he found 
A doom that ever poised itself to fall, 
An ever-moaning battle in the mist, 
World-war of dying flesh against the life. 
Death in all life and lying in all love, 
The meanest having power upon the 

highest, 
And the high purpose broken by the 



So leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the 

beach ; 
There found a little boat, and stept into 

it ; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd her 

not. 
She took the helm and he the sail ; the 

boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the 

deeps. 
And touching Breton sands, they dis- 

embark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the way, 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
P^or Merlin once had told her of a charm. 
The which if any wrought on anyone 
With woven paces and with waving arms. 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, 
From which was no escape for evermore ; 
And none could find that man for ever- 
more. 
Nor could he see but him who wrought 

the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the 

charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, 



384 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



As fancying that her glory would be great 
According to his greatness whom she 
quench'd. 

There lay she all her length and kiss'd 

his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a 

robe 
Of samite without price, that more exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome 

limbs, 
In colour like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, 

' Trample me, 
Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' the 

world. 
And I will pay you worship ; tread me 

down 
And I will kiss you for it ' ; he was mute : 
So dark a forethought roll'd about his 

brain. 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long 

sea-hall 
In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 
' O Merlin, do ye love me ? ' and again, 
' O Merlin, do ye love me ? ' and once 

more, 
' Great Master, do ye love me ? ' he was 

mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel. 
Writhed toward him, slided up his knee 

and sat. 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 
Together, curved an arm about his neck. 
Clung like a snake ; and letting her left 

hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, 
Made with her right a comb of pearl to 

part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone out 
Had left in ashes : then he spoke and said. 
Not looking at her, ' Who are wise in love 
Love most, say least,' and Vivien an- 

swer'd quick, 
' I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot : 



But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid 

child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me think 
Silence is wisdom : I am silent then, 
And ask no kiss ' ; then adding all at once, 
' And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' 

drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her knee, 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild 

wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd 

herself. 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapour ; till he sadly 

smiled : 
' To what request for what strange boon,' 

he said, 
' Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble ? yet my thanks, 
For these have broken up my melancholy. ' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, 
' What, O my Master, have ye found 
your voice ? 

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at 

last! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip. 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : 
In mine own lady palms I cull'd the 

spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from 

the cleft. 
And made a pretty cup of both my hands 
And ofifer'd you it kneeling : then you 

drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one 

poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat have 

given 
With no more sign of reverence than a 

beard. 
And when we halted at that other well. 
And I was faint to swooning, and you lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of 

those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did 

you know 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



38s 



That Vivien bathed your feet before her 

own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this 

wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled you : 
Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so 

strange — 
How had I wrong'd you ? surely ye are 

wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than 

kind.' 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said : 
' O did ye never lie upon the shore. 
And watch the curl'd white of the coming 

wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it 

breaks ? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable, 
Dark in the glass of some presagefulmood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 

court 
To break the mood. You follow'd me 

unask'd ; 
And when I look'd, and saw you follow- 
ing still. 
My mind involved yourself the nearest 

thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you 

truth ? 
You seem'd that wave about to break upon 

me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the 

world, 
My use and name and fame. Your pardon, 

child, 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all 

again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you 

thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, 

next 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, 

last 
For these your dainty gambols : wherefore 

ask ; 
And take this boon so strange and not so 

strange.' 



And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn- 
fully : 
* O not so strange as my long asking it. 
Not yet so strange as you yourself are 

strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of 

yours. 
I ever fear'd ye were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd ye did me 

wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be : 
But not of those that can expound them- 
selves. 
Take Vivien for expounder ; she will call 
That three -days-long presageful gloom of 

yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful mood 
That makes you seem less noble than 

yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon, 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear 

love. 
That such a mood as that, which lately 

gloom 'd 
Your fancy when ye saw me following 

you, 
Must make me fear still more you are not 

mine. 
Must make me yearn still more to prove 

you mine, 
And make me wish still more to learn 

this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. 
The charm so taught will charm us both 

to rest. 
For, grant me some slight power upon 

your fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust. 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing you 

mine. 
And therefore be as great as ye are named. 
Not muffled round with selfish reticence. 
How hard you look and how denyingly ! 
O, if you think this wickedness in me, 
That I should prove it on you unawares. 
That makes me passing wrathful ; then 

our bond 
Had best be loosed for ever : but think 

or not. 

2 C 



386 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean 

truth, 
As clean as blood of babes, as white as 

milk : 
O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, 
Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, 
Have tript on such conjectural treachery — 
May this hard earth cleave to the ' Nadir 

hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip 

me flat, 
If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, 
Till which I scarce can yield you all I am ; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish. 
The great proof of your love : because I 

think. 
However wise, ye hardly know me yet.' 

And Merlin loosed his hand from hers 

and said, 
* I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust, 
Than when I told you first of such a 

charm. 
Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much I trusted when I told you that, 
And stirr'd this vice in you which ruin'd 

man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for howsoe'er 
In children a great curiousness be well. 
Who have to learn themselves and all the 

world, 
In you, that are no child, for still I find 
Your face is practised when I spell the 

lines, 
I call it, — well, I will not call it vice : 
But since you name yourself the summer 

fly, 

I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten back 
Settles, till one could yield for weariness : 
But since I will not yield to give you power 
Upon my life and use and name and fame, 
Why will ye never ask some other boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trustedyou too much. ' 

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted 
maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 



Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears : 
' Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your 

maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself forgiven 
W^ho feels no heart to ask another boon. 
I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme 
Of " trust me not at all or all in all." 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once. 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

' " In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 

be ours. 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 

powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

' " It is the little rift within the lute. 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

' " The little rift within the lover's lute 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

' " It is not worth the keeping : let it go : 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all." 

O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme ? ' 

And Merlin look'd and half believed 

her true, 
So tender was her voice, so fair her face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her 

tears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a 

shower : 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly : 

' Far other was the song that once I 

heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: 
For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, 
To chase a creature that was current then 
In these wild woods, the hart with golden 

horns. 
It was the time when first the question 

rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the 

world. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



387 



And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the youngest 

of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he 

flash'd. 
And into such a song, such fire for fame, 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down 
To such a stern and iron -clashing close. 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl 

together. 
And should have done it ; but the beau- 
teous beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet. 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long we 

rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing 

wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our 

ears, 
And chased the flashes of his golden horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors did — 
Where children cast their pins and nails, 

and cry, 
" Laugh, little well ! " but touch it with 

a sword. 
It buzzes fiercely round the point ; and 

there 
We lost him : such a noble song was that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet 

rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm, 
Were proving it on me, and that I lay 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name and 
fame.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn- 
fully : 

* O mine have ebb'd away for evermore. 

And all thro' following you to this wild 
wood. 

Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 

Lo now, what hearts have men ! they 
never mount 

As high as woman in her selfless mood. 

And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my 
song, 

Take one verse more — the lady speaks it 
— this : 



' ' ' My name, once mine, now thine, is 

closelier mine. 
For fame, could fame be mine, that fame 

were thine, 
And shame, could shame be thine, that 

shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all." 

' Says she not well ? and there is more 
- — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl -necklace of the 

Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls 

were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics 

kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each 

other 
On her white neck — so is it with this 

rhyme : 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differently ; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of 

pearls : 
" Man dreams of Fame while woman 

wakes to love." 
Yea ! Love, tho' Love were of the gross- 
est, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest ; but Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is nothing 

to us ; 
And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, 
And counterchanged with darkness? ye 

yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's 

son. 
And since ye seem the Master of all Art, 
They fain would make you Master of all 

vice.' 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and 

said, 
' I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who sat 

alone. 
Had carved himself a knightly shield of 

wood. 
And then was painting on it fancied arms, 



388 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun 

In dexter chief; the scroll "I follow 

fame." 
And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the bird. 
And made a Gardener putting in a graff, 
With this for motto, "Rather use than 

fame. " 
You should have seen him blush ; but 

afterwards 
He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, 
For you, niethinks you think you love me 

well ; 
For me, I love you somewhat ; rest : and 

Love 
Should have some rest and pleasure in 

himself, 
Not ever be too curious for a boon, 
Too prurient for a proof against the grain 
Of him ye say ye love : but Fame with 

men. 
Being but ampler means to serve man- 
kind. 
Should have small rest or pleasure in 

herself. 
But work as vassal to the larger love. 
That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame 

again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my 

boon ! 
What other ? for men sought to prove me 

vile. 
Because I fain had given them greater 

wits : 
And then did Envy call me Devil's son : 
The sick weak beast seeking to help her- 
self 
By striking at her better, miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded her 

own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all un- 
known, 
But when my name was lifted up, the 

storm 
Brake on the mountain and I cared not 

for it. 
Right well know I that Fame is half- 

disfame. 



Yet needs must work my work. That 

other fame. 
To one at least, who hath not children, 

vague, 
The cackle of the unborn about the grave, 
I cared not for it : a single misty star, 
Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, 
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in that star 
To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I 

fear. 
Giving you power upon me thro' this 

charm. 
That you might play me falsely, having 

power, 
However well ye think ye love me now 
(As sons of kings loving in pupilage 
Have turn'd to tyrants when they came 

to power) 
I rather dread the loss of use than fame ; 
If you — and not so much from wickedness, 
As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 
Of overstrain'd affection, it may be. 
To keep me all to your own self, — or else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy, — 
Should try this charm on whom ye say ye 

love.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling as in 

wrath : 
' Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 

Good ! 
Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it out ; 
And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger born 
Of your misfaith ; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of mine 
Without the full heart back may merit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why not ? 

to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by yourself? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
Ye cage a buxom captive here and there. 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower 
From which is no escape for evermore.' 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



389 



Then the great Master merrily answer'd 

her : 
' Full many a love in loving youth was 

mine ; 
I needed then no charm to keep them mine 
But youth and love ; and that full heart 

of yours 
Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you 

mine ; 
So live uncharm'd. For those who 

wrought it first, 
The wrist is parted from the hand that 

waved, 
The feet unmortised from their ankle- 
bones 
Who paced it, ages back : but will ye hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme ? 

' There lived a king in the most Eastern 
East, 

Less old than I, yet older, for my blood 

Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 

A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port, 

Wliose bark had plunder'd twenty name- 
less isles ; 

And passing one, at the high peep of 
dawn, 

He saw two cities in a thousand boats 

All fighting for a woman on the sea. 

And pushing his black craft among them 
all. 

He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought 
her off, 

With loss of half his people arrow-slain ; 

A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful. 

They said a light came from her when she 
moved : 

And since the pirate would not yield her 
.up,_ 

The King impaled him for his piracy ; 

Then made her Queen : but those isle- 
nurtured eyes 

Waged such unwilling tho' successful war 

On all the youth, they sicken'd ; councils 
thinn'd, 

And armies waned, for magnet-like she 
drew 

The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 

And beasts themselves would worship ; 
camels knelt 



Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain 

back 
That carry kings in castles, bow'd black 

knees 
Of homage, ringing with their serpent 

hands, 
To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 
What wonder, being jealous, that he sent 
His horns of proclamation out thro' all 
The hundred under -kingdoms that he 

sway'd 
To find a wizard who might teach the King 
Some charm, which being wrought upon 

the Queen 
Might keep her all his own : to such a one 
He promised more than ever king has 

given, 
A league of mountain full of golden mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, the 

King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning 

by it 
To keep the Hst low and pretenders back, 
Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the city 

gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because the 

charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizard brow bleach'd on the 

walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway 

towers.' 

And Vivien breaking in upon him, said : 
' I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks. 
Thy tongue has tript a little : ask thyself. 
The lady never made tnnvilliiig war 
With those fine eyes : she had her pleasure 

in it. 
And made her good man jealous with good 

cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor damsel 

then 
Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair 1 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, 



390 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, 
Or make her paler with a poison'd rose ? 
Well, those were not our days : but did 

they find 
A wizard ? Tell me, was he like to thee?' 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm 

round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let her 

eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a 

bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of men. 

He answer'd laughing, ' Nay, not like 

to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for 

charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man. 
Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; 
Read but one book, and ever reading 

grew 
So grated down and filed away with 

thought. 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; while 

the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and 

spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one sole 

aim. 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted 

flesh. 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting 

men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it. 
And heard their voices talk behind the 

wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, powers 
And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud. 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting 

storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving rain. 
When the lake whiten'd and the pinewood 

roar'd. 
And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, 

sunn'd 
The world to peace again : here was the 
man. 



And so by force they dragg'd him to the 

King. 
And then he taught the King to charm 

the Queen 
In such -wise, that no man could see her 

more, 
Nor saw she save the King, who wrought 

the charm. 
Coming and going, and she lay as dead, 
And lost all use of life : but when the King 
Made proffer of the league of golden mines. 
The province with a hundred miles of coast. 
The palace and the princess, that old man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived on 

grass. 
And vanish'd, and his book came down 

to me.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily : 
' Ye have the book : the charm is written 

in it : 
Good : take my counsel : let me know it 

at once : 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd 

thirty-fold. 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a 

mound 
As after furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the 

charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame me 

then ? ' 

And smiling as a master smiles at one 

That is not of his school, nor any school 

J|fBut that where blind and naked Ignorance 

Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, 

On all things all day long, he answer'd her : 

' Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien ! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long. 
But every page having an ample marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot. 
The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; 
And every square of text an awful charm, 
Writ in a language that has long gone by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen since 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



391 



With cities on their flanks — thou read the 

book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, and 

cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, hard 
To mind and eye ; but the long sleepless 

nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to me. 
And none can read the text, not even I ; 
And none can read the comment but 

myself ; 
And in the comment did I find the charm. 
O, the results are simple ; a mere child 
Might use it to the harm of anyone, 
And never could undo it : ask no more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon me, 
But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, 

perchance. 
Assay it on some one of the Table Round, 
And all because ye dream they babble of 

you.' 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, 

said : 
' What dare the full-fed liars say of me ? 
' They ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine in 

horn ! 
They bound to holy vows of chastity ! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can understand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for 

shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch me : 

swine ! ' 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of her 

words : 
'You breathe but accusation vast and 

vague. 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If 

ye know. 
Set up the charge ye know, to stand or 

fall ! ' 

And Vivien answer'd frowning wrath- 
fully : 
* O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his 
wife 



And two fair babes, and went to distant 

lands ; 
Was one year gone, and on returning found 
Not two but three ? there lay the reckling, 

one 
Bu^ one hour old ! What said the happy 

sire? 
A seven-months' babehad been a truergift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused his 

fatherhood. ' 

Then answer'd Merlin, ' Nay, I know 

the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd from 

his wife : 
One child they had : it lived with her : 

she died : 
His kinsman travelling on his own affair 
Was charged by Valence to bring home 

the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : take 

the truth.' 

' O ay,' said Vivien, ' overtrue a tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, 
That ardent man ? " to pluck the flower 

in season," 
So says the song, "1 trow it is no treason." 

Master, shall we call him overquick 
To crop his own sweet rose before the 

hour ? ' 

And Merlin answer'd, ' Overquick art 

thou 
To catch a loathly plume fall'n from the 

wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole 

^prey 
Is man's good name : he never wrong'd 

his bride. 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of wind 
Puff'd out his torch among the myriad- 

room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace : then he found a door, 
And darkling felt the sculptured ornament 
That wreathen round it made it seem his 

own ; 
And wearied out made for the couch and 

slept. 



392 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd chastely 

down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once 
He rose without a word and parted from 

her : 
But when the thing was blazed about the 

court, 
The brute world howling forced them into 

bonds. 
And as it chanced they are happy, being 

pure.' 

' O ay,' said Vivien, ' that were likely 

too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the horrid foulness that he wrought. 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of 

Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard. 
Among the knightly brasses of the graves. 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead ! ' 

And Merlin answer'd careless of her 

charge, 
' A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new 

wine. 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard ; 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught 
And meant to stamp him with her master's 

mark ; 
And that he sinn'd is not believable ; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he sinn'd, 
The sin that practice burns into the blood. 
And not the one dark hour which brings 

remorse. 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be : 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose 

hymns 
x\re chanted in the minster, worse than all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, or have ye 

more ? ' 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in 
wrath : 
' O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend 



Traitor or true ? that commerce with the 

Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamour'd by the child. 
Or whisper'd in the corner ? do ye know 

it?' 

To which he answer'd sadly, ' Yea, I 

know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first. 
To fetch her, and she watch'd him from 

her walls. 
A rumour runs, she took him for the King, 
So fixt her fancy on him : let them be. 
But have ye no one word of loyal praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stainless 

man ? ' 

She answer'd with a low and chuckling 

laugh : 
' Man ! is he man at all, who knows and 

winks ? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, and 

winks ? 
By which the good King means to blind 

himself, 
And blinds himself and all the Table Round 
To all the foulness that they work. Myself 
Could call him (were it not for womanhood) 
The pretty, popular name such manhood 

earns. 
Could call him the main cause of all their 

crime ; 
Yea, were he not crown'd King, coward, 

and fool.' 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, 
said : 
' O true and tender ! O my liege and 

King ! 
O selfless man and stainless gentleman, 
Who wouldst against thine own eye- 
witness fain 
Have all men true and leal, all women 

pure ; 
How, in the mouths of base interpreters. 
From over-fineness not intelligible 
To things with every sense as false and foul 
As the poach'd filth that floods the middle 

street, 
Is thy white blamelessness accounted 
blame ! ' 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



393 



But Vivien, deeming Merlin overborne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her 

tongue 
Rage like a fire among the noblest names, 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad 

clean. 

Her words had issue other than she 

will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, 

and made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, 
And mutter'd in himself, ' Tell her the 

charm ! 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it not 
So will she rail, \^^lat did the wanton say ? 
" Not mount as high" ; we scarce can sink 

as low : 
For men at most differ as Heaven and 

earth. 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven 

and Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends of 

old; 
All brave, and many generous, and some 

chaste. 
She cloaks the scar of some repulse with 

lies ; 
I well believe she tempted them and fail'd. 
Being so bitter : for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as face 
With colours of the heart that are not theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes of 

times 
Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute a 

crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves. 
Wanting the mental range ; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level all ; 
Yea, they would pare the mountain to the 

plain, 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of note, 
Not grieving that their greatest are so 

small, 



Inflate themselves with some insane 

delight. 
And judge all nature from her feet of clay. 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spiritual 

fire, 
And touching other worlds. I am weary 

of her.' 

He spoke in words part heard, in 

whispers part. 
Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
And many-winter'd fleece of throat and 

chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his 

mood. 
And hearing ' harlot ' mutter'd twice or 

thrice. 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and 

stood 
Stiff" as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight. 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash'd the bare -grinning skeleton of 

death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of 

anger puff'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half- 

clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to her 

belt. 
And feeling ; had she found a dagger 

there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to 

hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she 

found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way, broken 

with sobs : 

' O crueller than was ever told in tale, 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish'd love ! 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, 
Or seeming shameful — for what shame in 

love, 
So love be true, and not as yours is — 

nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 



Il 



394 



MEK...N AND VIVIEN 



Who call'd her what he call'd her — all 

her crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him wholly 

hers.' 

She mused a little, and then clapt her 

hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and said : 
* Stabb'd through the heart's afifections to 

the heart ! 
Seethed like the kid in its own mother's 

milk ! 
Kill'd with a word worse than a life of 

blows ! 
I thought that he was gentle, being great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 

1 should have found in him a greater 

heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw 
The knights, the court, the King, dark 

in your light, 
Who loved to make men darker than they 

are, 
Because of that high pleasure which I 

had 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship— I am answer'd, and hence- 
forth 
The course of life that seem'd so flowery 

to me 
With you for guide and master, only you. 
Becomes the sea -cliff pathway broken 

short, 
And ending in a ruin — nothing left, 
But into some low cave to crawl, and 

there. 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, 
Kill'd with inUtterable unkindliness.' 

She paused, she turn'd away, she hung 

her head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, the 

braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh. 
And the dark wood grew darker toward 

the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed her 

true : 



Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
' Come from the storm,' and having no 

reply, 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the 

face 
Hand -hidden, as for utmost grief or 

shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest-touching 

terms. 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in 

vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by him. 
And as the cageling newly flown returns, 
The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing 
Came to her old perch back, and settled 

there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from his 

knees, 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed eye- 
lid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than in love. 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and rose. 
Her arms upon her breast across, and 

stood, 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd. 
Upright and flush'd before him : then she 

said : 

' There must be now no passages of love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore ; 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd, 
What should be granted which your own 

gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking ? I will , 

go. 
In truth, but one thing now — better have 

died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could 

make me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often ask'd in 

vain ! 
How justly, after that vile term of yours, 
I find with grief ! I might believe you 

then, 
Wlio knows ? once more. Lo ! what was 

once to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 



395 



iFarewell ; think gently of me, for I fear 
My fate or folly, passing gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love thee still. 
But ere I leave thee let me swear once 

more 
That if I schemed against thy peace in 

this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er 

me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, 

may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.' 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of 

heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above them) 

struck. 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of the 

wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his 

eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' the 

gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her 

oath. 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork. 
And deafen'd with the stammering cracks 

and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying out, 
' O Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save, 
Yet save me ! ' clung to him and hugg'd 

him close ; 
And call'd him dear protector in her 

fright. 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, 
But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd 

him close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 
Took gayer colours, like an opal warm'd. 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay 

tales : 
She shook from fear, and for her fault 

she wept 
Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and 

liege. 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve. 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate 

love 
Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 



Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten 

branch 
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 
Above them ; and in change of glare and 

gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and 

came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion 

spent, 
Moaning and calling out of other lands, 
Had left the ravaged woodland yet once 

more 
To peace ; and what should not have been 

had been. 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, and 

slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth 

the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead. 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 

Then crying ' I have made his glory 

mine,' 
And shrieking out ' O fool ! ' the harlot 

leapt 
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 
Behind her, and the forest echo'd ' fool. ' 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, 

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 

High in her chamber up a tower to the 

east 
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 
Which first she placed where morning's 

earliest ray 
Might strike it, and awake her with the 

gleam ; 
Then fearing rust or soilure fashion'd for it 
A case of silk, and braided thereupon 
All the devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 
A border fantasy of branch and flower, 
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by day. 



396 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



Leaving her household and good father, 

cHmb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering barr'd 

her door, 
Stript off the case, and read the naked 

shield, 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his 

arms. 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, 
And every scratch a lance had made 

upon it. 
Conjecturing when and where : this cut 

is fresh ; 
That ten years back ; this dealt him at 

Caerlyle ; 
That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 
And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was 

there ! 
And here a thrust that might have kill'd, 

but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his 

enemy down. 
And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good 

shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his 

name ? 
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond 

jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that 

name 
Had named them, since a diamond was 

the prize. 

For Arthur, long before they crown'd 

him King, 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black 

tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain 

side : 
For here two brothers, one a king, had 

met 
And fought together ; but their names 

were lost ; 
And each had slain his brother at a blow ; 



And down they fell and made the glen 

abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all their bones 

were bleach'd, 
And lichen'd into colour with the crags : 
And he, that once was king, had on a 

crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. 
And Arthur came, and labouring up the 

pass. 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and 

the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the skull 

the crown 
Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : 
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, 

and caught. 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, ' Lo, thou likewise shalt 

be King.' 

Thereafter, when a King, he had the 

gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them 

to his knights. 
Saying, ' These jewels, whereupon I 

chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the 

King's — 
For public use : henceforward let there be, 
Once every year, a joust for one of these: 
For so by nine years' proof we needs 

must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 
The heathen, who, some say, shall rule 

the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder.' Thus he 

spoke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had 

been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the 

year. 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen, 
When all were won ; but meaning all at 

once 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



397 



To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken 
word. 

Now for the central diamond and the 

last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his 

court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which 

now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to Guine- 
vere, 
' Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot 

move 
To these fair jousts?' 'Yea, lord,' she 

said, 'ye know it.' 
'Then will ye miss,' he answer'd, 'the 

great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, 
A sight ye love to look on.' And the 

Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside the 

King. 
He thinking that he read her meaning 

there, 
' Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is 

more 
Than many diamonds,' yielded ; and a 

heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make 

complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, 

and say, 
' Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly 

whole. 
And lets me from the saddle ' ; and the 

King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went 

his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she began : 

' To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, 
much to blame ! 
Why go ye not to these fair jousts ? the 
knights 



Are half of them our enemies, and the 

crowd 
Will murmur, " Lo the shameless ones, 

who take 
Their pastime now the trustful King is 

gone ! " ' 
Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain : 
' Are ye so wise ? ye were not once so wise. 
My Queen, that summer, when ye loved 

me first. 
Then of the crowd ye took no more account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead. 
When its own voice clings to each blade 

of grass. 
And every voice is nothing. As to 

knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men : many a bard, without offence. 
Has link'd our names together in his lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guine- 
vere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights at 

feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while the 

King 
Would listen smiling. How then ? is 

there more ? 
Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would 

yourself. 
Now weary of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord ?' 

She broke into a little scornful laugh : 
' Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless 

King, 
That passionate perfection, my good 

lord- 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven? 
He never spake word of reproach to me, 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth. 
He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his 

eyes : 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with 

him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible. 
To make them like himself: but, friend, 

to me 



398 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



He is all fault who hatli no flxult at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch of 

earth ; 
The low sun makes the colour : I am yours, 
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the 

bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to the 

jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our 

dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but 

they sting.' 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of 

knights : 
' And with what face, after my pretext 

made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a King who honours his own 

word. 
As if it were his God's ? ' 

'Yea,' said the Queen, 
* A moral child without the craft to rule. 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to me. 
If I must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go down before your spear at 

a touch. 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great 

name. 
This conquers : hide it therefore ; go 

unknown : 
Win ! by this kiss you will : and our true 

King 
Will then allow your pretext, O my 

knight, 
As all for glory ; for to speak him true, 
Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he 

seem, 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it in his knights more than 

himself : 
They prove to him his work : win and 

return.' 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, 
Wroth at himself. Not willing to be 

known. 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 



Chose the green path that show'd the 

rarer foot, 
And there among the solitary downs, 
Full often lost in fancy, lost his way ; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track. 
That all in loops and links among the 

dales 
Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the 

towers. 
Thither he made, and blew the gateway 

horn. 
Then came an old, dumb, myriad - 

wrinkled man. 
Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 
And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless 

man ; 
And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 
With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir 

Lavaine, 
Moving to meet him in the castle court ; 
And close behind them stept the lily maid 
Elaine, his daughter : mother of the house 
There was not : some light jest among 

them rose 
With laughter dying down as the great 

knight 
Approach'd them : then the Lord of 

Astolat : 
' Whence comest thou, my guest, and by 

what name 
Livest between the lips ? for by thy state 
And presence I might guess thee chief of 

those, 
After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. 
Him have I seen : the rest, his Table 

Round, 
Known as they are, to me they are un- 
known.' 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of 

knights : 
' Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and 

known. 
What I by mere mischance have brought, 

my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, 
Hereafter ye shall know me — and the 

shield — 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



399 



I pray you lend me one, if such you have, 
Blank, or at least with some device not 



Then said the Lord of Astolat, ' Here 

is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank 

enough. 
His ye can have.' Then added plain Sir 

Torre, 
• Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have 

it.' 
Here laugh'd the father saying, ' Fie, Sir 

Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 
Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger 

here, 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride. 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an 

hour, 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair, 
To make her thrice as wilful as before.' 

' Nay, father, nay good father, shame 

me not 
Before this noble knight,' said young 

Lavaine, 
' For nothing. Surely I but play'd on 

Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go : 
A jest, no more ! for, knight, the maiden 

dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her 

hand. 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt and fell intosome pool orstream, 
The castle-well, belike ; and then I said 
That if I went and if I fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was 

jest. 
But, father, give me leave, an if he will. 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight : 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would I do my best.' 

' So ye will grace me,' answer'd 
Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, ' with your fellowship 



O'er these waste downs whereon I lost 

myself. 
Then were I glad of you as guide and 

friend : 
And you shall win this diamond, — as I 

hear 
It is a fair large diamond, — if ye may, 
And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.' 
' A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir 

Torre, 
' Such be for queens, and not for simple 

maids. ' 
Then she, who held her eyes upon the 

ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, 
Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement 
Before the stranger knight, who, looking 

at her. 
Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return'd : 
' If what is fair be but for what is fair. 
And only queens are to be counted so, 
Rash were my judgment then, who deem 

this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, 
Not violating the bond of like to like.' 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid 

Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look'd, 
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. 
The great and guilty love he bare the 

Queen, 
In battle with the love he bare his lord. 
Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere 

his time. 
Another sinning on such heights with one, 
The flower of all the west and all the 

world. 
Had been the sleeker for it : but in him 
His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 
And drove him into wastes and solitudes 
For agony, who was yet a living soul. 
Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest 

man 
That ever among ladies ate in hall. 
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. 
However marr'd, of more than twice her 

years, 
Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the 

cheek. 



400 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up 

her eyes 
And loved him, with that love which was 

her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling of 

the court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half 

disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his kind : 
Whom they with meats and vintage of 

their best 
And talk and minstrel melody entertain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table 

Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he : 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years 

before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of his 

tongue. 
' He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce 

design 
Against my house, and him they caught 

and maim'd ; 
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among 

the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur 

broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill. ' 

' O there, great lord, doubtless, 'Lavaine 

said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of 

youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, ' you have 

fought. 
O tell us — for we live apart — you know 
Of Arthur'sglorious wars.' And Lancelot 

spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 
With Arthur in the fight which all day long 
Rang by the white movUh of the yj^lent 

Glem : 



And in the four loud battles by the shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy 

skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion, where the glorious 

King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carved of one emerald center'd in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he 

breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord. 
When the strong neighings of the wild 

white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of Trath 

Treroit, 
Wliere many a heathen fell ; ' and on the 

mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him. 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, 

stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to 

plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, 
' ' They are broken, they are broken ! " 

for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the 

jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, he 

laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men than 

he- 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills him : I never saw his like : there lives 
No greater leader.' 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 
' Save your great self, fair lord ' ; and 

when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry — 
Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind — 
She still took note that when the living 

smile 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



401 



Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him 

cheer, 
There brake a sudden -beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature : and she 

thought 
Thatall was nature, all, perchance, for her. 
And all night long his face before her lived. 
As when a painter, poring on a face, 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 
The shape and colour of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest ; so the face before her lived, 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, 

full 
Of noble things, and held her from her 

sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half- cheated in the 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
P'irst as in fear, step after step, she stole 
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating : 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the 

court, 
' This shield, my friend, where is it ? ' 

and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the 

tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, 

and smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, she 

drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more 

amazed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy light. 
He had not dream'd she was so beautiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire, 
That he should wear her favour at the tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 
' Fair lord, whose name \ know not — 
noble it is. 



I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 
My favour at this tournev ? ' ' Nay,' said 

he, 
' Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 
Favour of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those, who know me, 

know,' 
' Yea, so,' she answer'd ; ' then in wearing 

mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble 

lord. 
That those who know should know you.' 

And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his mind. 
And found it true, and answer'd, ' True, 

my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : 
What is it ? ' and she told him ' A red 

sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls,' and brought it : 

then he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, ' I never yet have done so much 
For any maiden living,' and the h)lood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her with 

delight ; 
But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet - unblazon'd 

shield, 
His brother's ; which he gave to Lancelot, 
Who parted with his own to fair Elaine : 
* Do me this grace, my child, to have my 

shield 
In keeping till I come.' ' A grace to me,' 
She answer'd, ' twice to-day. I am your 

squire ! ' 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, ' Lily 

maid. 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your colour back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get you 

hence to bed ' : 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own 

hand, 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd 

a minute. 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, 

and there — 
j Her bright hair blown about the serious 
I face 

2 D 



402 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss — 
Paused by the gateway, standing near 

the shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their arms 

far-ofif 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and took 

the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past 

away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs, 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived 

a knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 
A hermit, who had pray'd, labour'd and 

pray'd. 
And ever labouring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave. 
And cells and chambers : all were fair 

and dry ; 
The green light from the meadows under- 
neath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees 
And poplars made a noise of falling 

showers. 
And thither wending there that night they 

bode. 

But when the next day broke from 

underground, 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' the 

cave. 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and 

rode away : 
Then Lancelot saying, ' Hear, but hold 

my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the 

Lake,' 
Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant rever- 
ence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their 

own praise, 
But left him leave to stammer, ' Is it 

indeed ? ' 
And after muttering ' The great Lancelot,' 



At last he got his breath and answer'd, 

'One, 
One have I seen — that other, our liege 

lord. 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of 

kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously, 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had seen.' 

So spake Lavaine, and when they 
reach'd the lists 

By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 

Run thro' the peopled gallery which half 
round 

Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, 

Until they found the clear -faced King, 
who sat 

Robed in red samite, easily to be known, 

Since to his crown the golden dragon 
clung. 

And down his robe the dragon writhed 
in gold. 

And from the carven-work behind him 
crept 

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to 
make 

Arms for his chair, while all the rest of 
them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds innu- 
merable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 
found 

The new design wherein they lost them- 
selves. 

Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him set. 

Blazed the last diamond of the nameless 
king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine 

and said, 
' Me you call great : mine is the firmer 

seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I am 
And overcome it ; and in me there dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not great : 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



403 



There is the man.' And Lavaine gaped 

upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did either 

side, 
They that assail'd, and they that held the 

lists, 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move, 
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 
Shock, that a man far-off might well 

perceive, 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder 

of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd 

into it 
Against the stronger : little need to speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, 

earl. 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he over- 
threw. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith 

and kin, 
Ranged with the Table Round that held 

the lists. 
Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger 

knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other, 

'Lo! 
What is he? I do not mean the force 

alone — 
The grace and versatility of the man ! 
Is it not Lancelot ? ' ' When has Lance- 
lot worn 
Favour of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such his wont, as we, that know him, 

know.' 
* How then ? who then ? ' a fury seized 

them all, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd their 

steeds, and thus. 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind 

they made 
In moving, all together down upon him | 



Bare, as a wild wave in the wild North-sea, 
Green -glimmering toward the summit, 

bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against the 

skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark. 
And him that helms it, so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a 

spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the 

head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, 

and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- 

shipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the 

earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot where 

he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got, 
But thought to do while he might yet 

endure. 
And being lustily holpen by the rest. 
His party, — tho' it seem'd half-miracle 
To those he fought with, — drave his kith 

and kin. 
And all the Table Round that held the 

lists. 
Back to the barrier ; then the trumpets 

blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the 

sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the 

knights. 
His party, cried ' Advance and take thy 

prize 
The diamond '; but he answer'd, 'Diamond 

me 
No diamonds ! for God's love, a little air ! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! 
Hence will I, and I charge you, follow 

me not.' 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from 
the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, and 
sat. 



404 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 



Gasping to Sir Lavaine, ' Draw the lance- 
head ' : 
' Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said 

Lavaine, 
' I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.' 
But he, ' I die already with it : draw — 
Draw,' — and Lavaine drew, and Sir 

Lancelot gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly 

groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and down 

he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd 

away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him 

in, 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, in 

daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 
Hid from the wide world's rumour by the 

grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling 

showers. 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the 
lists. 
His party, knights of utmost North and 

West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate 

isles. 
Came round their great Pendragon, saying 

to him, 
' Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we 

won the day, 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left 

his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is death.' 
' Heaven hinder,' said the King, ' that 

such an one. 
So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lance- 
lot- 
He must not pass uncared for. Where- 
fore, rise, 
O Gawain, and ride forth and find the 

knight. 
Wounded and wearied needs must he be 
near. 



I charge you that you get at once to horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes 

not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly 

given : 
His prowess was too wondrous. We will 

do him 
No customary honour : since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, 
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and return, 
And bring us where he is, and how he 

fares. 
And cease not from your quest until ye 

find.' 

So saying, from the carven flower above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he took, 
And gave, the diamond : then from where 

he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose. 
With smiling face and frowning heart, a 

Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair 

and strong, 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and 

Geraint 
And Gareth, a good knight, but there- 
withal 
Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and now 
Wroth that the King's command to sally 

forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made him 

leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights 

and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and 

went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in 

mood, 
Past, thinking ' Is it Lancelot who hath 

come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for 

gain 
Of glory, and hath added wound to wound, 
And ridd'n away to die ? ' So fear'd the 

Kinc:, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



405 



And, after two days' tarriance there, 
return'd. 

Then when he saw the Queen, embrac- 
ing ask'd, 

' Love, are you yet so sick ? ' ' Nay, 
lord,' she said. 

* And where is Lancelot ? ' Then the 

Queen amazed, 

* Was he not with you ? won he not your 

prize ? ' 

* Nay, but one like him.' ' Why that like 

was he.' 
And when the King demanded how she 

knew. 
Said, ' Lord, no sooner had ye parted 

from us, 
Than Lancelot told me of a common 

talk 
That men went down before his spear at 

a touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great 

name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he hide 

his name 
From all men, ev'n the King, and to this 

end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering 

wound. 
That he might joust unknown of all, and 

learn 
If his old prowess were in aught decay' d ; 
And added, "Our true Arthur, when he 

learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory." ' 

Then replied the King : 

* Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been. 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he hath trusted 

thee. 
Surely his King and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, 

indeed. 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical. 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : 

now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own 

kin — 



111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, 

this !— 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon 

him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from the 

field: 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are 

mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with great 

pearls. 
Some gentle maiden's gift.' 

' Yea, lord,' she said, 
'Thy hopes are mine,' and saying that, 

she choked, 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her face. 
Past to her chamber, and there flung 

herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and 

writhed upon it, 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit the 

palm. 
And shriek'd out * Traitor ' to the un- 

hearing wall. 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose 

again, 
And moved about her palace, proud and 

pale. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region 

round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the 

quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar 

grove, 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the 

maid 
Glanced at, and cried, 'W^hat news from 

Camelot, lord ? 
What of the knight with the red sleeve ? ' 

' He won.' 
' I knew it,' she said. * But parted from 

the jousts 
Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her 

breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp 

lance go ; 



4o6 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



Thereon she smote her hand : wellnigh 

she swoon'd : 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, 

came 
The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the 

Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could not 

find 
The victor, but had ridd'n a random 

round 
To seek him, and had wearied of the 

search. 
To whom the Lord of Astolat, ' Bide with 

us, 
And ride no more at random, noble 

Prince ! 
Here was the knight, and here he left a 

shield ; 
This will he send or come for : further- 
more 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon. 
Needs must we hear.' To this the cour- 
teous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy, 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 
And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair 

Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier ? then 

her shape 
From forehead down to foot, perfect — 

again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 
' Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower for 

me !' 
And oft they met among the garden yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon her 
With sallying wit, tree flashes from a 

height 
Above her, graces of the court, and songs, 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden elo- 
quence 
And amorous adulation, till the maid 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him, ' Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he left, 
Whence you might learn his name ? Why 

slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, and 
prove 



No surer than our falcon yesterday, 
Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and 

went 
To all the winds ? ' ' Nay, by mine 

head,' said he, 
' I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 
O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes ; 
But an ye will it let me see the shield.' 
And when the shield was brought, and 

Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with 

gold. 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, 

and mock'd : 
' Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! 

that true man ! ' 
' And right was I,' she answer'd merrily, 

'I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest 

knight of all.' 
' And if / dream'd,' said Gawain, ' that 

you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, 

ye know it ! 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in 

vain ? ' 
Full simple was her answer, ' What know 

I? 
My brethren have been all my fellow- 
ship ; 
And I, when often they have talk'd of 

love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so 

myself — 
I know not if I know what true love is, 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
I know there is none other I can love.' 
' Yea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye love 

him well. 
But would not, knew ye what all others 

know, 
And whom he loves.' ' So be it,' cried 

Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved away : 
But he pursued her, calling, * Stay a 

little ! 
One golden minute's grace ! he wore 

your sleeve : 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



407 



Would he break faith with one I may not 

name ? 
Must our true man change Hke a leaf at 

last? 
Nay — like enow : why then, far be it 

from me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his 

loves ! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know full 

well 
Where your great knight is hidden, let 

me leave 
My quest with you ; the diamond also : 

here ! 
For if you love, it will be sweet to give it ; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to have it 
From your own hand ; and whether he 

love or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 
A thousand times ! — a thousand times 

farewell ! 
Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we 

two 
May meet at court hereafter : there, I 

think. 
So ye will learn the courtesies of the 

court. 
We two shall know each other.' 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he 

gave. 
The diamond, and all wearied of the 

quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he 

went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there told 

the King 
What the King knew, ' Sir Lancelot is 

the knight.' 
And added, ' Sire, my liege, so much I 

learnt ; 
But fail'd to find him, tho' I rode all 

round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him ; 

and to her, 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 



I gave the diamond : she will render it ;. 
For by mine head she knows his hiding- 
place.' 

The seldom -frowning King frown'd, 
and replied, 
' Too courteous truly ! ye shall go no more 
On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.' 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but all 

in awe. 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without 

a word, 
Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 
Then shook his hair, strode off, and 

buzz'd abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and her love. 
All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues 

were loosed : 
' The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lance- 
lot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.' 
Some read the King's face, some the 

Queen's, and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, but 

most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old 

dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the 

sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it 

before, 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have 

stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's aim with pale tran- 
quillity. 
So ran the tale like fire about the court, 
Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder 

flared : 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or 

thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the 

Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen, 

who sat 
With lips severely placid, felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet 

unseen 



4o8 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



Crush'd the wild passion out against the 

floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats 

became 
As wormwood, and she hated all who 

pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Iler guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one -day -seen Sir Lancelot in her 

heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face 

and said, 
' Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and 

now, 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my 

wits ? ' 
'Nay,' said he, 'surely.' 'Wherefore, 

let me hence,' 
She answer'd, ' and find out our dear 

Lavaine. ' 
' Ye will not lose your wits for dear 

Lavaine : 
Bide,' answer'd he : 'we needs must hear 

anon 
Of him, and of that other.' 'Ay,' she 

said, 
'And of that other, for I needs must hence 
And find that other, wheresoe'er he be. 
And with mine own hand give his diamond 

to him. 
Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 
As yon proud Prince who left the quest 

to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Death - pale, for lack of gentle maiden's 

aid. 
The gentler-born the maiden, the more 

bound. 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as ye know 
When these have worn their tokens : let 

me hence 
I pray you.' Then her father nodding 

said, 
* Ay, ay, the diamond : wit ye well, my 

child, 



Right fain were I to learn this knight 

were whole. 
Being our greatest : yea, and you must 

give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too 

high 
For any mouth to gape for save a 

queen's — 
Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you 

gone. 
Being so very wilful you must go.' 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away. 
And while she made her ready for her 

ride. 
Her father's latest word humm'd in her 

ear, 
' Being so very wilful you must go,' 
And changed itself and echo'd in her heart, 
' Being so very wilful you must die.' 
But she was happy enough and shook it 

off. 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
'What matter, so I help him back to life?' 
Then far away with good Sir Torre for 

guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flowers : 
Whom when she saw, ' Lavaine,' she 

cried, ' Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? ' He 

amazed, 
' Torre and Elaine ! why here ? Sir 

Lancelot ! 
How know ye my lord's name is Lance- 
lot?' 
But when the maid had told him all her 

tale. 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his 

moods 
Left them, and under the strange-statued 

gate, 
Wliere Arthur's wars were render'd 

mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his kin, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



409 



His own far blood, which dwelt at 

Camelot ; 
And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove 
Led to the caves : there first she saw the 
\ casque 

!■ Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls 

awa)-, 
j Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart 

she laugh'd, 
I Because he had not loosed it from his 
j helm. 

But meant once more perchance to tour- 
ney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell wherein 

he slept. 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made them 

move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, 

unshorn. 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
■ Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he roll'd 

his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, 

saying, 
' Your prize the diamond sent you by the 

King': 
His eyes glisten'd : she fancied ' Is it for 

me ? ' 
And when the maid had told him all the 

tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, 

the quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed. 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the 

child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her 

face. 
At once she slipt like water to the floor. 
'Alas,' he said, ' your ride hath wearied 

you. 
Rest must you have.' ' No rest for me,' 

she said ; 



' Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.' 
What might she mean by that ? his large 

black eyes. 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon 

her. 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 
In the heart's colours on her simple face ; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in 

mind. 
And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the colour ; woman's 

love. 
Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the 

fields. 
And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured 

gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night : but woke with 

dawn, and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields, 
Thence to the cave : so day by day she 

past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him. 
And likewise many a night : and Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little 

hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at 

times 
Brain - feverous in his heat and agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek 

maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse. 
Milder than any mother to a sick child. 
And never woman yet, since man's first 

fall. 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 
Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in all 
The simples and the science of that time, 
Told him that her fine care had saved his 

life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple blush, 
W^ould call her friend and sister, sweet 

Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and regret 



410 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



Her parting step, and held her tenderly, 
And loved her with all love except the 

love 
Of man and woman when they love their 

best. 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the 

death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her first 
She might have made this and that other 

world 
Another world for the sick man ; but now 
The shackles of an old love straiten'd 

him, 
His honour rooted in dishonour stood, 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sick- 
ness made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not 

live : 
For when the blood ran lustier in him 

again, 
Full often the bright image of one face, 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart. 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd 

not, 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right 

well 
What the rough sickness meant, but what 

this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd 

her sight. 
And drave her ere her time across the 

fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, ' Vain, in vain : it cannot 

be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must 

I die?' 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few 

notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 



Went half the night repeating, ' Must I 

die?' 
And now to right she turn'd, and now to 

left. 
And found no ease in turning or in rest ; 
And ' Him or death,' she mutter'd, 

' death or him,' 
Again and like a burthen, ' Him or death.' 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt 

was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet 

self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd 

her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

thought 
' If I be loved, these are my festal robes. 
If not, the victim's flowers before he fall.' 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift of 

him 
For her own self or hers ; ' and do not 

shun 
To speak the wish most near to your true 

heart ; 
Such service have ye done me, that I make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord 

am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I can.' 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face. 
But like a ghost without the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld her 

wish. 
And bode among them yet a little space 
Till he should learn it ; and one morn it 

chanced 
He found her in among the garden yews. 
And said, ' Delay no longer, speak your 

wish, 
Seeing I go to-day ' : then out she brake : 
' Going ? and we shall never see you more. 
And I must die for want of one bold word.' 
' Speak : that I live to hear,' he said, ' is 

yours.' 
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: 
' I have gone mad. I love you : let me 

die.' 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



411 



Ah, sister,' ansvver'd Lancelot, * what is 

this?' 
I And innocently extending her white arms, 
Your love,' she said, ' your love — to be 

your wife.' 
jAnd Lancelot answer'd, ' Had I chosen 

to wed, 

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine : 

But now there never will be wife of mine.' 

No, no,' she cried, ' I care not to be 

wife, 
But to be with you still, to see your face, 
To serve you, and to follow you thro' the 

world.' 
And Lancelot answer'd, ' Nay, the world, 

the world, 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — nay, 
Full ill then should I quit your brother's 

love. 
And your good father's kindness.' And 

she said, 
' Not to be with you, not to see your face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are done. ' 
* Nay, noble maid,' he answer'd, ' ten 

times nay ! 
This is not love : but love's first flash in 

youth. 
Most common : yea, I know it of mine 

own self : 
And you yourself will smile at your own 

self 
Hereafter, when you yield your flower of 

hfe 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice your 

age: 
And then will I, for true you are and 

sweet 
Beyond mine old belief in womanhood. 
More specially should your good knight 

be poor, 
Endow you with broad land and territory 
Even to the half my realm beyond the 

seas, 
So that would make you happy : further- 
more, 
Ev'n to the death, as tho' ye were my 

blood. 



In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, 
And more than this I cannot.' 

While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but 

deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then 

replied : 
' Of all this will I nothing ' ; and so fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to her 

tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black 
walls of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father : ' Ay, 

a flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 
Too courteous are ye, fair I^ord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion.' 

Lancelot said, 
' That were against me : what I can I 

will ' ; 
And there that day remain'd, and toward 

even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the 

maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked 

shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the 

stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, and 

look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her sleeve 

had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking 

sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking 

at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved 

his hand. 
Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : 
His very shield was gone ; only the case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labour, 
left. 



412 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



But still she heard him, still his picture 

form'd 
And grew between her and the pictured 

wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low tones, 
' Have comfort,' whom she greeted 

quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, ' Peace 

to thee, 
Sweet sister,' whom she answer'd with all 

calm. 
But when they left her to herself again, 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant 

field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd ; 

the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she 

mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. 

And in those days she made a little 

song, 
And call'd her song < The Song of Love 

and Death,' 
And sang it : sweetly could she make 

and sing. 

' Sweet is true love the' given in vain, 

in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to 

pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

' Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter 
death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to 
me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

' Sweet love, that seems not made to 
fade aM^ay, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us love- 
less clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

' I fain would follow love, if that could 

be; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for 

me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die.' 



High with the last line scaled her voice, 

and this. 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, 

and thought 
With shuddering, ' Hark the Phantom of 

the house 
That ever shrieks before a death,' and 

call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light 

of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, ' Let 

me die ! ' 

As when we dwell upon a word we 

know, 
Repeating, till the word we know so well 
Becomes a wonder, and we know not why. 
So dwelt the father on her face, and 

thought 
' Is this Elaine ? ' till back the maiden fell. 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and 

lay. 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her 

eyes. 
At last she said, ' Sweet brothers, yester- 
night 
I seem'd a curious little maid again, 
As happy as when we dwelt among the 

woods. 
And when ye used to take me with the 

flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the cape 
That has the poplar on it : there ye fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because ye would not pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the King. 
And yet ye M'ould not ; but this night I 

dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, " Now shall I have my 

will " : 
And there I woke, but still the wish 

remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood. 
Until I find the palace of the King. 



LANCELOT AND. ELALNE 



413 



There will I enter in among them all, 
And no man there will dare to mock at 

me ; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder at 

me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse 

at me ; 
Gawain, v/ho bad a thousand farewells to 

me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me 

one : 
And there the King will know me and 

my love. 
And there the Queen herself will pity me. 
And all the gentle court will welcome me. 
And after my long voyage I shall rest ! ' 

' Peace,' said her father, ' O my child, 
ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to 

go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore would 

ye look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns 
all?' 

Then the rough Torre began to heave 

and move, 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 
' I never loved him : an I meet with 

him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike him 

down. 
Give me good fortune, T will strike him 

dead, 
For this discomfort he hath done the 

house. ' 

To whom the gentle sister made reply, 
* Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be 

wroth. 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 
highest. ' 

* Highest?' the father answer'd, echoing 
' highest ? ' 
(He meant to break the passion in her) 
'nay, 



Daughter, I know not what you call the 

highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people know it. 
He loves the Queen, and in an open shame : 
And she returns his love in open shame; 
If this be high, what is it to be low ? ' 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat : 
' Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me 

pass. 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, 
Thanks, but you work against your own 

desire ; 
For if I could believe the things you say 
I should but die the sooner ; wherefore 

cease. 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and 

die.' 

So when the ghostly man had come and 

gone, 
She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven. 
Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he 

ask'd 
' Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord ? 
Then will I bear it gladly ' ; she replied, 
' For Lancelot and the Queen and all the 

world. 
But I myself must bear it.' Then he wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being writ 
And folded, ' O sweet father, tender and 

true, 
Deny me not,' she said — 'ye never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange, 
My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. 
And when the heat is gone from out my 

heart. 
Then take the little bed on which I died 



414 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the 

Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go m state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own 

self. 
And none of you can speak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the 

doors.' 

She ceased : her father promised ; 

whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her 

death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on the 

eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand. 
And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from 

underground. 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent 

brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that 

shone 
Full -summer, to that stream whereon the 

barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house. 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 
So those t%vo brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed. 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonings, 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to 

her 

* Sister, farewell for ever,' and again 

* Farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the 

dead, 



Oar'd by the dumb, went upward with 

the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair streaming 

down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in 

white 
All but her face, and that clear- featured 

face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace 

craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly gift, 
Hard- won and hardly won with bruise and 

blow. 
With deaths of others, and almost his 

own. 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for 

he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the 

Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen 

agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but 

that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her 

feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of some piece of pointed lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the 

walls. 
And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side. 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the 

stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling utter'd, 

' Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy. 
Take, what I had not won except for you. 
These jewels, and make mehappy, making 

them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the 

swan's 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



415 



Is tawnier tlian her cygnet's : these are 

words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin 

in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my 

Queen, 
I hear of rumours flying thro' your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and 

wife. 
Should have in it an absohiter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumours be : 
When did not rumours fly ? these, as I 

trust 
That you trust me in your own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe.' 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, 

the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them 

ofl-. 
Till all the place whereon she stood was 

green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive 

hand 
Received at once and laid aside the gems 
There on a table near her, and replied : 

* It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the 

Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite and 

wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are 

these ? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice 

their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your 

own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her ! for your new fancy. Only this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys 

apart. 



I doubt not that however changed, you 

keep 
So much of what is graceful : and myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of 

courtesy 
In which as Arthur's Queen I move and 

rule : 
So cannot speak my mind. An end to 

this ! • 
A strange one I yet I take it with Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her 

pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines 

me down : 
An armlet for an arm to which the 

Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 
O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds — hers 

not mine — 
Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself. 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work my 

will- 
She shall not have them.' 

Saying which she seized. 
And, thro' the casement standing wide 

for heat, 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, and 

smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as 

it were. 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past 

away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half 

disdain 
At love, life, all things, on the window 

ledge. 
Close underneath his eyes, and right 

across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the 

barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst 

away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the 

barge. 
On to the palace -doorway sliding, paused. 



4i6 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 



There two stood arm'd, and kept the 

door ; to whom, 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier, 
Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes 

that ask'd 
' What is it ? ' but that oarsman's haggard 

face. 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye 'from broken 

rocks 
On some cliff- side, appall'd them, and 

they said, 
' He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, 

so fair ! 
Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? flesh 

and blood ? 
Or come to take the King to Fairyland ? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot die. 
But that he passes into Fairyland.' 

While thus they babbled of the King, 

the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the 

tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and 

rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 
So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ; 
And reverently they bore her into hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain and wonder'd 

at her. 
And Lancelot later came and mused at 

her. 
And last the Queen herself, and pitied 

her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; 

this was all : 

* Most noble lord. Sir Lancelot of the 

Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell, 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return, 
And therefore my true love has been my 

death. 
And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, 



And to all other ladies, I make moan : 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless.' 

Thus he read ; 
And ever in the reading, lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who 

read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times. 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that 

her lips, 
Wlio had devised the letter, moved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them 

all: 
' My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that 

hear, 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's 

death 
Right heavy am I ; for good she was and 

true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that I 

gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a love : 
To this I call my friends in testimony, 
Her brethren, and her father, who himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, and 

use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I did. 
I left her and I bad her no farewell ; 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would 

have died, 
I might have put my wits to some rough 

use, 
And help'd her from herself.' 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after 

storm) 
' Ye might at least have done her so 

much grace. 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her from 

her death.' 
He raised his head, their eyes met and 

hers fell. 



LANCELOT AJSTD ELALNE 



417 



He adding, 

' Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not 

be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the world, 

she ask'd ; 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
Was but the flash of youth, would darken 

down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then 

would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, poor. 
Estate them with large land and territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow 

seas, 
To keep them in all joyance : more than 

this 
I could not ; this she would not, and she 

died.' 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, ' O my 
knight. 
It will be to thy worship, as my knight, 
And mine, as head of all our Table Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully. ' 

So toward that shrine which then in 

all the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 
The marshall'd Order of their Table 

Round, 
And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see 
The maiden buried, not as one unknown, 
Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies. 
And mass, and rolling music, Hke a queen. 
And when the knights had laid her comely 

head 
Low in the dust of half- forgotten kings, 
Then Arthur spake among them, ' Let 

her tomb 
Be costly, and her image thereupon. 
And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 
Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 
And let the story of her dolorous voyage 
For all true hearts be blazon'd on her tomb 
In letters gold and azure ! ' which was 

wrought 
Thereafter ; but when now the lords and 

dames 



And people, from the high door stream- 
ing, brake 
Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 
Who mariv'd Sir Lancelot where he moved 

apart, 
Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, 

' Lancelot, 
Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love.' 
He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 
< That is love's curse ; pass on, my Queen, 

forgiven.' 
But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, 
Approach'd him, and with full affection 
said, 

* Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom 

I have 
Most joy and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my side, 
And many a time have watch'd thee at 

the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long practised 

knight, 
And let the younger and unskill'd go by 
To win his honour and to make his name, 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved ; but now I would to 

God, 
Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems. 
By God for thee alone, and from her face. 
If one may judge the living by the dead, 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair. 
Who might have brought thee, now a 

lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and fame. 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the 

Lake.' 

Then answer'd Lancelot, ' Fair she was, 

my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be 

bound.' 

2 E 



4i8 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



• Free love, so bound, were freest,' said 

the King. 
* Let love be free ; free love is for the 

best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of 

death. 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, the' being, as I think, 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.' 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but 

he went. 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her 

moving down. 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself, 'Ah simple heart and 

sweet. 
Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for 

thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at 

last — 
Farewell, fair lily. "Jealousy in love"? 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous 

pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, 
May not your crescent fear for name and 

fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes ? 
Why did the King dwell on my name to 

me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a 

reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Caught from his mother's arms — the 

wondrous one 
Who passes thro' the vision of the night — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and 

morn 
She kiss'd me saying, "Thou art fair, 

my child, 
As a king's son," and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er 

it be ! 



For what am I ? what profits me my name 
Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and 

have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain ; 
Now grown a part of me : but what use in 

it? 
To make men worse by making my sin 

known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must 

break 
These bonds that so defame me : not 

without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it? nay, 
Who knows? but if I would not, then 

may God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me far. 
And fling me deep in that forgotten 

mere. 
Among the tumbled fragments of the 

hills.' 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful 
pain. 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 

THE HOLY GRAIL 

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess 

done 
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, 
Whom Arthur and his knighthood call'd 

The Pure, 
Had pass'd into the silent life of prayer, 
Praise, fast, and alms ; and leaving for 

the cowl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long after, 

died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, 
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the 

rest. 
And honour'd him, and wrought into his 

heart 
A way by love that waken'd love within. 
To answer that which came : and as they 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



419 



Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening 

half 
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 
That puff'd the swaying branches into 

smoke 
Above them, ere the summer when he 

died, 
The monk Ambrosius question'd Per- 

civale : 

' O brother, I have seen this yew-tree 

smoke, 
Spring after spring, for half a hundred 

years : 
For never have I known the world with- 
out. 
Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : but 

thee, 
When first thou earnest — such a courtesy 
Spake thro' the limbs and in the voice — 

I knew 
For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall ; 
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins. 
Some true, some light, but every one of you 
Stamp'd with the image of the King ; and 

now 
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table 

Round, 
My brother ? was it earthly passion crost ?' 

' Nay,' said the knight ; * for no such 

passion mine. 
But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail 
Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries, 
And earthly heats that spring and sparkle 

out 
Among us in the jousts, while women 

watch 
Who wins, who falls ; and waste the 

spiritual strength 
Within us, better ofifer'd up to Heaven.' 

To whom the monk : ' The Holy 

Grail ! — I trust 
We are green in Heaven's eyes ; but here 

too much 
We moulder — as to things without I 

mean — 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of 

ours, 
Told us of this in our refectory. 



But spake with such a sadness and so low 
We heard not half of what he said. What 

is it? 
The phantom of a cup that comes and 

goes ? ' 

*Nay, monk ! what phantom ?' answer'd 

Percivale. 
' The cup, the cup itself, from which our 

Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with his 

own. 
This, from the blessed land of Aromat — 
After the day of darkness, when the dead 
Went wandering o'er Moriah — the good 

saint 
Arimathsean Joseph, journeying brought 
To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our 

Lord. 
And there awhile it bode ; and if a man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'd at 

once, 
By faith, of all his ills. But then the times 
Grew to such evil that the holy cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and dis- 

appear'd.' 

To whom the monk : ' From our old 

books I know 
That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury, 
x\nd there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, 
Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to 

build ; 
And there he built with wattles from the 

marsh 
A little lonely church in days of yore. 
For so they say, these books of ours, but 

seem 
Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. 
But who first saw the holy thing to-day ? ' 

'A woman,' answer'd Percivale, 'a 

nun, 
And one no further off in blood from me 
Than sister ; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the stone, 
A holy maid ; tho' never maiden glow'd, 
But that was in her earlier maidenhood. 
With such a fervent flame of human 

love, 



420 



THE HOL V GRAIL 



Which being rudely blunted, glanced and 

shot 
Only to holy things ; to prayer and praise 
She gave herself, to fast and alms. And 

yet, 
Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, 
Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, 
And the strange sound of an adulterous 

race, 
Across the iron grating of her cell 
Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all the 

more. 

* And he to whom she told her sins, or 

what 
Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, 
A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, 
Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, 
A legend handed down thro' five or six. 
And each of these a hundred winters old, 
From our Lord's time. And when King 

Arthur made 
His Table Round, and all men's hearts 

became 
Clean for a season, surely he had thought 
That now the Holy Grail would come 

again ; 
But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it 

would come. 
And heal the world ofall their wickedness ! 
" O Father ! " ask'd the maiden, " might 

it come 
To me by prayer and fasting?" " Nay," 

said he, 
* ' I know not, for thy heart is pure as 

snow. " 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, and 

I thought 
She might have risen and floated when I 

saw her. 

*For on a day she sent to speak with 

me. 
And when she came to speak, behold her 

eyes 
Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, 
Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful. 
Beautiful in the light of holiness. 
And " O my brother Percivale," she said, 



"Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy 

Grail : 
For, waked at dead of night, I heard a 

sound 
As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 
Blown, and I thought, ' It is not Arthur's 

use 
To hunt by moonlight ' ; and the slender 

sound 
As -from a distance beyond distance grew 
Coming upon me — O never harp norhorn, 
Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch 

with hand. 
Was like that music as it came ; and then 
Stream'd thro' my cell a cold and silver 

beam, 
And down the long beam stole the Holy 

Grail, 
Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, 
Till all the white walls of my cell were 

dyed 
With rosy colours leaping on the wall ; 
And then the music faded, and the Grail 
Past, and the beam decay'd, and from the 

walls 
The rosy quiverings died into the night. 
So now the Holy Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and 

pray. 
And tell thy brother knights to fast and 

pray. 
That so perchance the vision may be seen 
By thee and those, and all the world be 

heal'd." 

' Then leaving the pale nun, I spake 

of this 
To all men ; and myself fasted and 

pray'd 
Always, and many among us many a week 
Fasted and pray'd even to the uttermost, 
Expectant of the wonder that would be. 

' And one there was among us, ever 

moved 
Among us in white armour, Galahad. 
" God make thee good as thou art beau- 

tif\il," 
Said Arthur, when he dubb'd him knight ; 

and none. 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



421 



In so young youth, was ever made a 

knight 
Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when 

he heard 
My sister's vision, fill'd me with amaze ; 
His eyes became so like her own, they 

seem'd 
Hers, and himself her brother more than I. 

* Sister or brother none had he ; but 

some 
Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and some 

said 
Begotten by enchantment — chatterers 

they. 
Like birds of passage piping up and down, 
That gape for flies — we know not whence 

they come ; 
For when was Lancelot wanderingly 

lewd ? 

' But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore 

away 
Clean from her forehead all that wealth 

of hair 
Which made a silken mat-work for her 

feet; 
And out of this she plaited broad and long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver 

thread 
And crimson in the belt a strange device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam ; 
And saw the bright boy -knight, and 

bound it on him, 
Saying, " My knight, my love, my knight 

of heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one with 

mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my 

belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have 

seen. 
And break thro' all, till one will crown 

thee king 
Far in the spiritual city " : and as she 

spake 
She sent the deathless passion in her eyes 
Thro' him, and made him hers, and laid 

her rrind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 



' Then came a year of miracle : O 
brother. 
In our great hall there stood a vacant 

chair, 
Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away, 
And carven with strange figures ; and in 

and out 
The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 
Of letters in a tongue no man could read. 
And Merlin call'd it "The Siege peril- 
ous," 
Perilous for good and ill; "for there," 

he said, 
"No man could sit but he should lose 

himself" : 
And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 
In his own chair, and so was lost ; but he, 
Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom, 
Cried, " If I lose myself, I save myself ! " 

' Then on a summer night it came to 

pass. 
While the great banquet lay along the 

hall, 
That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's 

chair. 

' And all at once, as there we sat, we 

heard 
A cracking and a riving of the roofs, 
And rending, and a blast, and overhead 
Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the hall 
A beam of light seven times more clear 

than day : 
And down the long beam stole the Holy 

Grail 
All over cover 'd with a luminous cloud. 
And none might see who bare it, and it 

past. 
But every knight beheld his fellow's face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose, 
And staring each at other like dumb men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware a 

vow. 

' I sware a vow before them all, that I, 
Because I had not seen the Grail, would 

ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it. 
Until I found and saw it, as the nun 



422 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



My sister saw it ; and Galahad sware the 

vow, 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, 

sware, 
And Lancelot sware, and many among 

the knights. 
And Gawain sware, and louder than the 

rest. ' 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, ask- 
ing him, 
' What said the King ? Did Arthur take 
the vow ? ' 

' Nay, for my lord,' said Percivale, 

' the King, 
Was not in hall : for early that same day. 
Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit hold, 
An outraged maiden sprang into the hall 
Crying on help : for all her shining hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either milky 

arm 
Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all 

she wore 
Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn 
In tempest : so the King arose and went 
To smoke the scandalous hive of those 

wild bees 
That made such honey in his realm. 

Howbeit 
Some little of this marvel he too saw. 
Returning o'er the plain that then began 
To darken under Camelot ; whence the 

King 
Look'd up, calling aloud, " Lo, there ! 

the roofs 
Of our great hall are roll'd in thunder- 
smoke ! 
Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the 

bolt." 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, 
As having there so oft with all his knights 
Feasted, and as the stateliest under 

heaven. 

' O brother, had you known our mighty 
hall. 
Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago ! 
For all the sacred mount of Camelot, 
And all the dim rich city, roof by roof. 
Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 



By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing 

brook. 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin 

built. 
And four great zones of sculpture, set 

betwixt 
With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall : 
And in the lowest beasts are slaying men, 
And in the second men are slaying beasts, 
And on the third are warriors, perfect men. 
And on the fourth are men with growing 

wings. 
And over all one statue in the mould 
Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, 
And peak'd wings pointed to the Northern 

Star. 
And eastward fronts the statue, and the 

crown 
And both the wings are made of gold, 

and flame 
At sunrise till the people in far fields. 
Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, 
Behold it, crying, " We have still a King." 

' And, brother, had you known our hall 

within, 
Broader and higher than any in all the 

lands ! 
Where twelve great windows blazon 

Arthur's wars. 
And all the light that falls upon the board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles of 

our King. 
Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, 
Wealthy with wandering lines of mount 

and mere. 
Where Arthur finds the brand Excalibur. 
And also one to the west, and counter to it. 
And blank : and who shall blazon it ? 

when and how ? — 
O there, perchance, when all our wars are 

done. 
The brand Excalibur will be cast away. 

' So to this hall full quickly rode the 
King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought. 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, 

wrapt 
In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. 



THE HOL Y GRAIL 



423 



And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all : 
And many of those who burnt the hold, 

their arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed with 

smoke, and sear'd, 
Follow'd, and in among bright faces, ours, 
Full of the vision, prest : and then the 

King 
Spake to me, being nearest, " Percivale," 
(Because the hall was all in tumult — some 
Vowing, and some protesting), "what is 

this?" 

* O brother, when I told him what had 

chanced, 
My sister's vision, and the rest, his face 
Darken'd, as I have seen it more than 

once. 
When some brave deed seem'd to be done 

in vain. 
Darken ; and " Woe is me, my knights," 

he cried, 
" Had I been here, ye had not sworn 

the vow." 
Bold was mine answer. '* Had thyself 

been here. 
My King, thou wouldst have sworn." 

" Yea, yea," said he, 
" Art thou so bold and hast not seen the 

Grail ? " 

'*'Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I 
saw the light. 
But since I did not see the Holy Thing, 
I sware a vow to follow it till I saw." 

* Then when he ask'd us, knight by 

knight, if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were as 

one : 
" Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn 

our vows." 

' " Lo now," said Arthur, "have ye 
seen a cloud ? 
What go ye into the wilderness to see ?," 

*Then Galahad on the sudden, and in 
a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, call'd, 



" But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, 
I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry — 
'O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.'" 

'"Ah, Galahad, Galahad," said the 

King, ' ' for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for these. 
Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign — 
Holier is none, my Percivale, than she — 
A sign to maim this Order which I made. 
But ye, that follow but the leader's bell " 
(Brother, the King was hard upon his 

knights) 
' ' Taliessin is our fullest throat of song, 
And one hath sung and all the dumb will 

sing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne 
Five knights at once, and every younger 

knight, 
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he learns — and ye. 
What are ye ? Galahads ? — no, nor 

Percivales " 
(For thus it pleased the King to range 

me close 
After Sir Galahad) ; " nay," said he, 

" but men 
With strength and will to right the 

wrong'd, of power 
To lay the sudden heads of violence flat. 
Knights that in twelve great battles 

splash'd and dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own 

heathen blood — 
But one hath seen, and all the blind will 

see. 
Go, since your vows are sacred, being 

made : 
Yet — for ye know the cries of all my 

realm 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, O my 

knights. 
Your places being vacant at my side, 
This chance of noble deeds will come 

and go 
Unchallenged, while ye follow wandering 

fires 
Lost in the quagmire ! Many of you, yea 

most. 
Return no more : ye think I show myself 



424 



THE HOL Y GRAIL 



Too dark a prophet : come now, let us 

meet 
The morrow morn once more in one full 

field 
Of gracious pastime, that once more the 

King, 
Before ye leave him for this Quest, may 

count 
The yet - unbroken strength of all his 

knights, 
Rejoicing in that Order which he made." 

* So when the sun broke next from 

underground, 
All the great table of our Arthur closed 
And clash'd in such a tourney and so full, 
So many lances broken — never yet 
Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur 

came ; 
And I myself and Galahad, for a strength 
Was in us from the vision, overthrew 
So many knights that all the people cried, 
And almost burst the barriers in their 

heat, 
Shouting, "Sir Galahad and Sir Perci- 

vale ! » 

* But when the next day brake from 

underground — 
O brother, had you known our Camelot, 
Built by old kings, age after age, so old 
The King himself had fears that it would 

fall. 
So strange, and rich, and dim ; for where 

the roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the sky, 
Met foreheads all along the street of those 
Who watch'd us pass ; and lower, and 

where the long 
Rich galleries, lady -laden, weigh'd the 

necks 
Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, 
Thicker than drops from thunder, showers 

of flowers 
Fell as we past ; and men and boys astride 
On v^^vern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, 
At all the corners, named us each by 

name. 
Calling " God speed ! " but in the ways 

below 



The knights and ladies wept, and rich 

and poor 
Wept, and the King himself could hardly 

speak 
For grief, and all in middle street the 

Queen, 
Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and shriek'd 

aloud, 
' ' This madness has come on us for our 

sins." 
So to the Gate of the three Queens we 

came, 
Where Arthur's wars are render'd mys- 
tically. 
And thence departed every one his way. 

' And I was lifted up in heart, and 

thought 
Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, 
How my strong lance had beaten down 

the knights, 
So many and famous names ; and never 

yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor earth 

so green, 
For all my blood danced in me, and I 

knew 
That I should light upon the Holy Grail. 

' Thereafter, the dark warning of our 

King, 
That most of us would follow wandering 

fires. 
Came like a driving gloom across my 

mind. 
Then every evil word I had spoken once. 
And every evil thought I had thought of 

old. 
And every evil deed I ever did. 
Awoke and cried, "This Quest is not for 

thee." 
And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself 
Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns, 
And I was thirsty even unto death ; 
And I, too, cried, " This Quest is not for 

thee." 

' And on I rode, and when I thought 
my thirst 
Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then 
a brook, 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



425 



With one sharp rapid, where the crisping 

white 
Play'd ever back upon the sloping wave, 
And took both ear and eye ; and o'er the 

brook 
Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook 
Fallen, and on the lawns. " I will rest 

here," 
I said, " I am not worthy of the Quest " ; 
But even while I drank the brook, and ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at once 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 
And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. 

' And then behold a woman at a door 
Spinning ; and fair the house whereby she 

sat. 
And kind the woman's eyes and innocent. 
And all her bearing gracious ; and she rose 
Opening her arms to meet me, as who 

should say, 
"Rest here"; but when I touch'd her, 

lo ! she, too, 
Fell into dust and nothing, and the house 
Became no better than a broken shed. 
And in it a dead babe ; and also this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 

' And on I rode, and greater was my 

thirst. 
Then flash'd a yellow gleam across the 

world. 
And where it smote the plowshare in the 

field. 
The plowman left his plowing, and fell 

down 
Before it ; where it glitter'd on her pail, 
The milkmaid left her milking, and fell 

down 
Before it, and I knew not why, but 

thought 
"The sun is rising," tho' the sun had risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me moved 
In golden armour with a crown of gold 
About a casque all jewels ; and his horse 
In golden armour jewell'd everywhere : 
And on the splendour came, flashing me 

blind ; 
And seem'd to me the Lord of all the 

world. 



Being so huge. But when I thought he 

meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, too, 
Open'd his arms to embrace me as he 

came, 
And up I went and touch'd him, and he, 

too. 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a land of sand and 

thorns. 

'And I rode on and found a mighty 

hill, 
And on the top, a city wall'd : the spires 
Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into 

heaven. 
And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; and 

these 
Cried to me climbing, "Welcome, Perci- 

vale ! 
Thou mightiest and thou purest among 

men ! " 
And glad was I and clomb, but found at 

top 
No man, nor any voice. And thence I 

past 
Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw 
That man had once dwelt there ; but 

there I found 
Only one man of an exceeding age. 
"Where is that goodly company," said I, 
" That so cried out upon me?" and he 

had 
Scarce any voice to answer, and yet 

gasp'd, 
' ' Whence and what art thou ? " and even 

as he spoke 
Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and I 
Was left alone once more, and cried in 

grief, 
" Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself 
And touch it, it will crumble into dust." 

' And thence I dropt into a lowly vale, 
Low as the hill was high, and where the 

vale 
Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby 
A holy hermit in a hermitage. 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he 

said : 



426 



THE HOL V GRAIL 



' " O son, thou hast not true humility, 
The highest virtue, mother of them all ; 
For when the Lord of all things made 

Himself 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
' Take thou my robe,' she said, ' for all 

is thine,' 
And all her form shone forth with sudden 

light 
So that the angels were amazed, and she 
Follow'd Him down, and like a flying 

star 
Led on the gray-hair'd wisdom of the east ; 
But her thou hast not known : for what 

is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy 

sins ? 
Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself 
As Galahad." When the hermit made 

an end, 
In silver armour suddenly Galahad shone 
Before us, and against the chapel door 
Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt in 

prayer. 
And there the hermit slaked my burning 

thirst, 
And at the sacring of the mass I saw 
The holy elements alone ; but he, 
"Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw 

the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the 

shrine : 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread, and went ; 
And hither am I come ; and never yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first to 

see. 
This Holy Thing, fail'd from my side, nor 

come 
Cover'd, but moving with me night and 

day, 
Fainter by day, but always in the night 
Blood-red, and sliding down the blacken'd 

marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain 

top 
Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of this 

I rode, 
Shattering all evil customs everywhere. 



And past thro' Pagan realms, and made 

them mine. 
And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and bore 

them down. 
And broke thro' all, and in the strength 

of this 
Come victor. But my time is hard at 

hand, 
And hence I go ; and one will crown me 

king 
Far in the spiritual city ; and come thou, 

too, 
For thou shalt see the vision when I go." 

' While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling 

on mine. 
Drew me, with power upon me, till I 

grew 
One with him, to believe as he believed. 
Then, when the day began to wane, we 

went. 

' There rose a hill that none but man 

could climb, 
Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- 
courses — 
Storm at the top, and when we gain'd it, 

storm 
Round us and death ; for every moment 

glanced 
His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick 

and thick 
The lightnings here and there to left and 

right 
Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, 

dead. 
Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death. 
Sprang into fire : and at the base we found 
On either hand, as far as eye could see, 
A great black swamp and of an evil smell, 
Part black, part whiten'd with the bones 

of men. 
Not to be crost, save that some ancient 

king 
Had built a way, where, link'd whh 

many a bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridge by 

bridge, 
And every bridge as quickly as he crost 



THE HOL V GRAIL 



427 



Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I 

yearn'd 
To follow ; and thrice above him all the 

heavens 
Open'd and blazed with thunder such as 

seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God : and first 
At once I saw him far on the great Sea, 
In silver-shining armour starry-clear ; 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung 
Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, 
If boat it were — I saw not whence it came. 
And when the heavens open'd and blazed 

again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 
And had he set the sail, or had the boat 
Become a living creature clad with wings? 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me. 
For now I knew the veil had been with- 
drawn. 
Then in a moment when they blazed again 
Opening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight beyond 

the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all her spires 
And gateways in a glory like one pearl — 
No larger, tho' the goal of all the saints — 
Strike from the sea ; and from the star 

there shot 
A rose-red sparkle to the cit}-, and there 
Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again shall see. 
Then fell the floods of heaven drowning 

the deep. 
And how my feet recrost the deathful ridge 
No memory in me lives ; but that I touch'd 
The chapel-doors at dawn I know ; and 

thence 
Taking my war-horse from the holy man, 
Glad that no phantom vext me more, 

return'd 
To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's 

wars.' 

* O brother,' ask'd Ambrosius, — ' for 
in sooth 
These ancient books — and they would win 
thee — teem. 



Only I find not there this Holy Grail, 
With miracles and marvels like to these. 
Not all unlike ; which oftentime I read. 
Who read but on my breviary with ease. 
Till my head swims ; and then go forth 

and pass 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so close, 
And almost plaster'd like a martin's nest 
To these old walls — and mingle with our 

folk ; 
And knowing every honest face of theirs 
As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep. 
And every homely secret in their hearts, 
Delight myself with gossip and old wives. 
And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings- 

in. 
And mirthful sayings, children of the place. 
That have no meaning half a league away : 
Or lulling random squabbles when they 

rise, 
Chafiferings and chatterings at the market- 
cross. 
Rejoice, small man, in this small world 

of mine. 
Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs — 
O brother, saving this Sir Galahad, 
Came ye on none but phantoms in your 

quest. 
No man, no woman ? ' 

Then Sir Percivale : 
'All men, to one so bound by such a vow, 
And women were as phantoms. O, my 

brother, 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee 
How far I falter'd from my quest and vow ? 
For after I had lain so many nights, 
A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake, 
In grass and burdock, I was changed to 

wan 
And meagre, and the vision had not 

come ; 
And then I chanced upon a goodly town 
With one great dwelling in the middle 

of it; 
Thither I made, and there was I disarm'd 
By maideiis each as fair as any flower : 
But when they led me into hall, behold, 
The Princess of that castle was the one, 
Brother, and that one onlv, who had ever 



428 



THE HOL Y GRAIL 



Made my heart leap ; for when I moved 

of old 
A slender page about her father's hall, 
And she a slender maiden, all my heart 
Went after her with longing : yet we 

twain 
Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a vow. 
And now I came upon her once again, 
And one had wedded her, and he was dead, 
And all his land and wealth and state 

were hers. 
And while I tarried, every day she set 
A banquet richer than the day before 
By me ; for all her longing and her will 
Was toward me as of old ; till one fair 

morn, 
I walking to and fro beside a stream 
That flash'd across her orchard underneath 
Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk, 
And calling me the greatest of all knights, 
Embraced me, and so kiss'd me the first 

time, 
And gave herself and all her wealth to me. 
Then I remember'd Arthur's warning 

word, 
That most of us would follow wandering 

fires. 
And the Quest faded in my heart. Anon, 
The heads of all her people drew to me. 
With supplication both of knees and 

tongue : 
"We have heard of thee: thou art our 

greatest knight, 
Our Lady says it, and we well believe : 
Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us. 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land." 
O me, my brother ! but one night my vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled, 
But wail'd and wept, and hated mine own 

self. 
And ev'n the Holy Quest, and all but her ; 
Then after I was join'd with Galahad 
Cared not for her, nor anything upon 

earth.' 

Then said the monk, *Poor men, when 
yule is cold. 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am I, so that ye care for me 
Ever so little ; yea, and blest be Heaven 



That brought thee here to this poor house 

of ours 
Where all the brethren are so hard, to 

warm 
My cold heart with a friend : but O the 

pity 
To find thine own first love once more — 

to hold. 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine 

arms, 
Or all but hold, and then — cast her aside. 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. 
For we that want the warmth of double 

life. 
We that are plagued with dreams of 

something sweet 
Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich, — 
Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthly wise, 
Seeing I never stray'd beyond the cell, 
But live like an old badger in his earth. 
With earth about him everywhere, despite 
All fast and penance. Saw ye none be- 
side, 
None of your knights ? ' 

' Yea so,' said Percivale : 
' One night my pathway swerving east, I 

saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors 
All in the middle of the rising moon : 
And toward him spurr'd, and hail'd him, 

and he me. 
And each made joy of either ; then he 

ask'd, 
"Where is he? hast thou seen him — 

Lancelot ? — Once," 
Said good Sir Bors, "he dash'd across me 

— mad. 
And maddening what he rode : and when 

I cried, 
' Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy,' Lancelot shouted, ' Stay me not ! 
I have been the sluggard, and I ride apace, 
For now there is a lion in the way.' 
So vanish'd." 

' Then Sir Bors had ridden on 
Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, 
Because his former madness, once the talk 
And scandal of our table, had return'd ; 



THE HOL V GRAIL 



429 



For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship 

him 
That ill to him is ill to them ; to Bors 
Beyond the rest : he well had been content 
Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have 

seen, 
The Holy Cup of healing ; and, indeed, 
Being so clouded with his grief and love, 
Small heart was his after the Holy Quest : 
If God would send the vision, well : if not, 
The Quest and he were in the hands of 

Heaven. 

' And then, with small adventure met, 

Sir Bors 
Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm, 
And found a people there among their 

crags, 
Our race and blood, a remnant that were 

left 
Paynim amid their circles, and the stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven : and 

their wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which can 

trace 
The wandering of the stars, and scoff 'd at _ 

him 
And this high Quest as at a simple thing : 
Told him he follow'd — almost Arthur's 

words — 
A mocking fire : ' ' what other fire than 

he, 
Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom 

blows, 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is 

warm'd ? " 
And when his answer chafed them, the 

rough crowd. 
Hearing he had a difference with their 

priests, 
Seized him, and bound and plunged him 

into a cell 
Of great piled stones ; and lying bounden 

there 
In darkness thro' innumerable hours 
He heard the hollow -ringing heavens 

sweep 
Over him till by miracle — what else ? — 
Hea^'y as it was, a great stone slipt and 

fell, 



Such as no wind could move : and thro' 

the gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud : then 

came a night 
Still as the day was loud ; and thro' the 

gap 
The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table 

Round — 
For, brother, so one night, because they 

roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we named 

the stars. 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our King — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar 

friends, 
In on him shone : " And then to me, to 

me," 
Said good Sir Bors, "beyond all hopes 

of mine. 
Who scarce had pray'd or ask'd it for 

myself — 
Across the seven clear stars — O grace to 

me — 
In colour like the fingers of a hand 
Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail 
Glided and past, and close upon it peal'd 
'A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards, a 

maid. 
Who kept our holy faith among her kin 
In secret, entering, loosed and let him go.' 

To whom the monk : ' And I remember 

now 
That pelican on the casque : Sir Bors it 

was 
Who spake so low and sadly at our board ; 
And mighty reverent at our grace was he : 
A square -set man and honest; and his 

eyes. 
An out-door sign of all the warmth within. 
Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath a 

cloud. 
But heaven had meant it for a sunny one : 
Ay, ay. Sir Bors, who else ? But when 

ye reach'd 
The city, found ye all your knights re- 

turn'd, 
Or was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy. 
Tell me, and what said each, and what 

the King ? ' 



430 



THE HOL Y GRAIL 



Then answer'd Percivale : ' And that 
can I, 
Brother, and truly ; since the Hving words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our King 
Pass not from door to door and out again, 
But sit within the house. O, when we 

reach'd 
The city, our horses stumbling as they 

trode 
On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 
Crack'd basilisks, and splinter'd cocka- 
trices, 
And shatter'd talbots, which had left the 

stones 
Raw, that they fell from, brought us to 
the hall. 

' And there sat Arthur on the dais- 
throne, 

And those that had gone out upon the 
Quest, 

Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of 
them, 

And those that had not, stood before the 
King, 

Who, when he saw me, rose, and bad 
me hail, 

Saying, " A welfare in thine eye reproves 

Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee 

On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. 

So fierce a gale made havoc here of late 

Among the strange devices of our kings ; 

Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of 
ours. 

And from the statue Merlin moulded for 
us 

Half-wrench'd a golden wing ; but now — 
the Quest, 

This vision — hast thou seen the Holy Cup, 

That Joseph brought of old to Glaston- 
bury ? " 

* So when I told him all thyself hast 

heard, 
Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve 
To pass away into the quiet life, 
He answer'd not, but, sharply turning, 

ask'd 
Of Gawain, " Gawain, was this Quest for 

thee ? " 



' "Nay, lord," said Gawain, "not for 

such as I. 
Therefore I communed with a saintly man, 
Who made me sure the Quest was not 

for me ; 
For I was much awearied of the Quest : 
But found a silk pavilion in a field. 
And merry maidens in it ; and then this 

gale 
Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, 
And blew my merry maidens all about 
With all discomfort ; yea, and but for this, 
My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant 

to me. " 

' He ceased ; and Arthur tiirn'd to 

whom at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, 

push'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught 

his hand, 
Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, 

stood, 
Until the King espied him, saying to him, 
" Hail, Bors ! if ever loyal man and true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail " ; 

and Bors, 
' ' Ask me not, for I may not speak of it : 
I saw it " ; and the tears were in his eyes. 

' Then there remain'd but Lancelot, for 

the rest 
Spake but of sundry perils in the storm ; 
Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, 
Our Arthur kept his best until the last ; 
"Thou, too, my Lancelot," ask'd the 

King, " my friend. 
Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd for 

thee ? " 

' " Our mightiest ! "answer'd Lancelot, 

with a groan ; 
"O King!" — and when he paused, 

methought I spied 
A dying fire of madness in his eyes — 
" O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be, 
Happier are those that welter in their sin. 
Swine in the mud, that cannot see for 

slime. 
Slime of the ditch : but in me lived a sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure, 



THE HOL Y GRAIL 



431 



Noble, and knightly in me twined and 

clung 
Round that one sin, until the wholesome 

flower 
And poisonous grew together, each as 

each, 
Not to be pluck'd asunder ; and when thy 

knights 
Sware, I sware with them only in the hope 
That could I touch or see the Holy Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder. Then I 

spake 
To one most holy saint, who wept and 

said, 
That save they could be pluck'd asunder, 

all 
My quest were but in vain ; to whom I 

vow'd 
That I would work according as he will'd. 
And forth I went, and while I yearn'd 

and strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my heart, 
My madness came upon me as of old. 
And whipt me into waste fields far away ; 
There was I beaten down by little men, 
Mean knights, to whom the moving of 

my sword 
And shadow of my spear had been enow 
To scare them from me once ; and then 

I came 
All in my folly to the naked shore. 
Wide flats, where nothing but coarse 

grasses grew ; 
But such a blast, my King, began to blow, 
So loud a blast along the shore and sea. 
Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, 
Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all the 

sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all the sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded 

heavens 
Were shaken with the motion and the 

sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam sway'd a 

boat, 
Half-swallow'd in it, anchor'd with a 

chain ; 
And in my madness to myself I said, 
* I will embark and I will lose myself, 
And in the great sea wash away my sin.' 



I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat. 
Seven days I drove along the dreary deep. 
And with me drove the moon and all the 

stars ; 
And the wind fell, and on the seventh 

night 
I heard the shingle grinding in the surge. 
And felt the boat shock earth, and looking 

up, 
Behold, the enchanted towers of Car- 

bonek, 
A castle like a rock upon a rock. 
With chasm-like portals open to the sea, 
And steps that met the breaker ! there 

was none 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entry, and the moon was 

full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up the 

stairs. 
There drew my sword. With sudden- 
flaring manes 
Those two great beasts rose upright like 

a man. 
Each gript a shoulder, and I stood 

between ; 
And, when I would have smitten them, 

heard a voice, 
' Doubt not, go forward ; if thou doubt, 

the beasts 
Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with 

violence 
The sword was dash'd from out ni}- hand, 

and fell. 
And up into the sounding hall I past ; 
But nothing in the sounding hall I saw, 
No bench nor table, painting on the wall 
Or shield of knight ; only the rounded 

moon 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard. 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, 
A sweet voice singing in the topmost 

tower 
To the eastward : up I climb'd a thousand 

steps 
With pain : as in a dream I seem'd to 

climb 
For ever : at the last I reach'd a door, 
A light was in the crannies, and I heard. 



432 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



' Glory and joy and honour to our Lord 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.' 
Then in my madness I essay'd the door ; 
It gave ; and thro' a stormy glare, a heat 
As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I, 
Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was, 
With such a fierceness that I swoon'd 

away — 
O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, 
All pall'd in crimson samite, and around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings 

and eyes. 
And but for all my madness and my sin, 
And then my swooning, I had sworn I 

saw 
That which I saw ; but what I saw was 

veil'd 
And cover'd ; and this Quest was not for 

me." 

' So speaking, and here ceasing, Lance- 
lot left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain — nay. 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish 

words, — 
A reckless and irreverent knight was he. 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his 

King,— 
Well, I will tell thee : " O King, my 

liege," he said, 
' ' Hath Gawain fail'd in any quest of 

thine ? 
When have I stinted stroke in foughten 

field? 
But as for thine, my good friend Percivale, 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven men 

mad. 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than 

our least. 
But by mine eyes and by mine ears I 

swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat. 
And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, 
To holy virgins in their ecstasies, 
Henceforward." 

' " Deafer," said the blameless King, 
"Gawain, and blinder unto holy things 
Hope not to make thyself by idle vows, 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 



But if indeed there came a sign from 

heaven. 
Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale, 
For these have seen according to their 

sight. 
For every fiery prophet in old times. 
And all the sacred madness of the bard. 
When God made music thro' them, could 

but speak 
His music by the framework and the 

chord ; 
And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. 

'"Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot: 

never yet 
Could all of true and noble in knight and 

man 
Twine round one sin, whatever it might 

be, 
With such a closeness, but apart there 

grew. 
Save that he were the swine thou spakest 

of, 
Some root of knighthood and pure noble- 
ness ; 
Whereto see thou, that it may bear its 

flower. 

'"And spake I not too truly, O my 
knights ? 
Was I too dark a prophet when I said 
To those who went upon the Holy Quest, 
That most of them would follow wan- 
dering fires, 
Lost in the quagmire ? — lost to me and 

gone. 
And left me gazing at a barren board. 
And a lean Order — scarce return'd a 

tithe — 
And out of those to whom the vision came 
My greatest hardly will believe he saw ; 
Another liath beheld it afar off. 
And leaving human wrongs to right them- 
selves. 
Cares but to pass into the silent life. 
And one hath had the vision face to 

face. 
And now his chair desires him here in 

vain. 
However they may crown him otherwhere. 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



433 



' "And some among you held, that if 

the King 
Had seen the sight he would have sworn 

the vow : 
Not easily, seeing that the King must 

guard 
That which he rules, and is but as the hind 
To whom a space of land is given to 

plow. 
Who may not wander from the allotted 

field 
Before his work be done ; but, being done. 
Let visions of the night or of the day 
Come, as they will ; and many a time 

they come. 
Until this earth he walks on seems not 

earth. 
This light that strikes his eyeball is not 

light, 
This air that smites his forehead is not air 
But vision — yea, his very hand and foot — 
In moments when he feels he cannot die, 
And knows himself no vision to himself, 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that One 
Who rose again : ye have seen what ye 

have seen." 

' So spake the King : I knew not all 
he meant.' 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 

King Arthur made new knights to fill 

the gap 
Left by the Holy Quest ; and as he sat 
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors 
Were softly sunder'd, and thro' these a 

youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along with 

him. 

* Make me thy knight, because I know. 
Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.' 
Such was his cry : for having heard the 

King 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly sword, • 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won 
T 



The golden circlet, for himself the sword : 
And there were those who knew him near 

the King, 
And promised for him : and Arthur made 

him knight. 

And this new knight. Sir Pelleas of the 

isles — 
But lately come to his inheritance, 
And lord of many a barren isle was he — 
Riding at noon, a day or twain before, 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to find 
Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his helm, 

and reel'd 
Almost to falling from his horse ; but 

saw 
Near him a mound of even -sloping side. 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, 
And here and there great holUes under 

them ; 
But for a mile all round was open space, 
And fern and heath : and slowly Pelleas 

drew 
To that dim day, then binding his good 

horse 
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as he 

lay 
At random looking over the brown earth 
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the 

grove, 
It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern without 
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, 
So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. 
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud 
Floating, and once the shadow of a bird 
Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes 

closed. 
And since he loved all maidens, but no 

maid 
In special, half- awake he whisper'd, 

' Where ? 
O where ? I love thee, tho' I know thee 

not. 
For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, 
And I will make thee with my spear and 

sword 
As famous — O my Queen, my Guinevere, 
For I will be thine Arthur when we 

meet. ' 

2 F 



434 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



Suddenly waken'd with a sound of talk 
And laughter at the limit of the wood, 
And glancing thro' the hoary boles, he saw, 
Strange as to some old prophet might 

have seem'd 
A vision hovering on a sea of fire. 
Damsels in divers colours like the cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 
On horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of bracken 

stood : 
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly. 
And one was pointing this way, and one 

that, 
Because the way was lost. 

And Pelleas rose. 
And loosed his horse, and led him to the 

light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among 

them said, 
' In happy time behold our pilot-star ! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, 
Arm'd as ye see, to tilt against the knights 
There at Caerleon, but have lost our way : 
To right ? to left ? straight forward ? back 

again ? 
Which? tell us quickly.' 

Pelleas gazing thought, 
* Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ? ' 
For large her violet eyes look'd, and her 

bloom 
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens, 
And round her limbs, mature in woman- 
hood ; 
And slender was her hand and small her 

shape ; 
And but for those large eyes, the haunts 

of scorn, 
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle with, 
And pass and care no more. But while 

he gazed 
The beauty of her flesh abash'd the boy. 
As tho' it were the beauty of her soul : 
For as the base man, judging of the good. 
Puts his own baseness in him by default 
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend 
All the young beauty of his own soul to 
hers. 



Believing her ; and when she spake to 

him, 
Stammer'd, and could not make her a 

reply. 
For out of the waste islands had he come. 
Where saving his own sisters he had known 
Scarce any but the women of his isles. 
Rough wives, that laugh'd and scream'd 

against the gulls, 
Makers of nets, and living from the sea. 

Then with a slow smile turn'd the lady 
round 
And look'd upon her people ; and as when 
A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn. 
The circle widens till it lip the marge. 
Spread the slow smile thro' ail her com- 
pany. 
Three knights were thereamong ; and they 

too smiled. 
Scorning him ; for the lady was Ettarre, 
And she was a great lady in her land. 

Again she said, ' O wild and of the 

woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our 

speech ? 
Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair 

face, 
Lacking a tongue ? ' 

' O damsel,' answer'd he, 
' I woke from dreams ; and coming out 

of gloom 
Was dazzled by the sudden light, and 

crave 
Pardon : but will ye to Caerleon ? I 
Go likewise : shall I lead you tothe King?' 

' Lead then,' she said ; and thro' the 

woods they went. 
And while they rode, the meaning in his 

eyes. 
His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe. 
His broken utterances and bashfulness. 
Were all a burthen to her, and in her 

heart 
She mutter'd, ' I have lighted on a fool. 
Raw, yet so stale 1 ' But since her mind 

was bent 
On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



435 



And title, ' Queen of Beauty,' in the lists 
Cried — and beholding him so strong, she 

thought 
That peradventure he will fight for me. 
And win the circlet : therefore flatter'd 

him, 
Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deem'd 
His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her 

knights 
And all her damsels too were gracious to 

him. 
For she was a great lady. 

And when they reach'd 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she. 
Taking his hand, ' O the strong hand,' 

she said, 
' See ! look at mine ! but wilt thou fight 

for me, 
And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, 
That I may love thee ? ' 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, ' Ay ! wilt thou if I 

win?' 
'Ay, that will I,' she answer'd, and she 

laugh'd. 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it 

from her ; 
Then glanced askew at those three knights 

of hers, 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with her. 

' O happy world,' thought Pelleas, ' all, 

meseems. 
Are happy ; I the happiest of them all.' 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in his 

blood. 
And green wood-ways, and eyes among 

the leaves ; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, 

sware 
To love one only. And as he came away, 
The men who met him rounded on their 

heels 
And wonder'd after him, because his face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest of 

old 
Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad 

was he. 



Then Arthur made vast banquets, and 

strange knights 
From the four winds came in : and each 

one sat, 
Tho' served with choice from air, land, 

stream, and sea, 
Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his 

eyes 
His neighbour's make and might : and 

Pelleas look'd 
Noble among the noble, for he dream'd 
His lady loved him, and he knew himself 
Loved of the King : and him his new- 
made knight 
Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved 

him more 
Than all the ranged reasons of the world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morning 

of the jousts, 
And this was call'd ' The Tournament of 

Youth ' : 
For Arthur, loving his young knight, 

withheld 
His older and his mightier from the lists, 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love. 
According to her promise, and remain 
Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had 

the jousts 
Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk 
Holden : the gilded parapets were crown'd 
With faces, and the great tower fill'd with 

eyes 
Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew. 
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the 

field 
With honour : so by that strong hand of 

his 
The sword and golden circlet were 

achieved. 

Then rang the shout his lady loved : 

the heat 
Of pride and glory fired her face ; her eye 
Sparkled ; she caught the circlet from his 

lance, 
And there before the people crown'd 

herself : 
So for the last time she was gracious to 

him. 



436 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



Then at Caerleon for a space — her look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her 

knight — 
Linger'd Ettarre : and seeing Pelleas 

droop, 
Said Guinevere, 'We marvel at thee 

much, 

damsel, wearing this unsunny face 

To him who won thee glory ! ' And she 

said, 
' Had ye not held your Lancelot in your 

bower. 
My Queen, he had not won.' Whereat 

the Queen, 
As one whose foot is bitten by an ant, 
Glanced down upon her, turn'd and went 

her way. 

But after, when her damsels, and her- 
self. 

And those three knights all set their 
faces home, 

Sir Pelleas foUow'd. She that saw him 
cried, 

* Damsels — and yet I should be shamed 
to say it — 

1 cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back 
Among yourselves. Would rather that 

we had 
Some rough old knight who knew the 

worldly way, 
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 
And jest with : take him to you, keep 

him off. 
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, 
Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep. 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell their 

boys. 
Nay, should ye try him with a merry one 
To find his mettle, good : and if he fly 

us. 
Small matter ! let him.' This her 

damsels heard, 
And mindful of her small and cruel hand, 
They, closing round him thro' the journey 

home. 
Acted her best, and always from her side 
Restrain'd him with all manner of device. 
So that he could not come to speech 

with her. 



And when she gain'd her castle, upsprang 

the bridge, 
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the 

groove, 
And he was left alone in open field. 

* These be the ways of ladies,' Pelleas 

thought, 
' To those who love them, trials of our 

faith. 
Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, 
For loyal to the uttermost am I.' 
So made his moan ; and, darkness falling, 

sought 
A priory not far off, there lodged, but 

rose 
With morning every day, and, moist or 

dry, 
Full-arm'd upon his charger all day long 
Sat by the walls, and^ no one open'd to 

him. 

And this persistence turn'd her scorn 

to wrath. 
Then calling her three knights, she 

charged them, ' Out ! 
And drive him from the walls.' And out 

they came, 
But Pelleas overthrew them as they 

dash'd 
Against him one by one ; and these 

return'd. 
But still he kept his watch beneath the 

wall. 

Thereon her wrath became a hate ; 

and once, 
A week beyond, while walking on the 

walls 
With her three knights, she pointed 

downward, ' Look, 
He haunts me — I cannot breathe — be- 
sieges me ; 
Down ! strike him ! put my hate into 

your strokes. 
And drive him from my walls.' And 

down they went. 
And Pelleas overthrew them one by one ; 
And from the tower above him cried 

Ettarre, 
' Bind him, and bring him in.' 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



437 



He heard her voice ; 

Then let the strong hand, which had 
overthrown 

Her minion-knights, by those he over- 
threw 

Be bounden straight, and so they brought 
him in. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, 

the sight 
Of her rich beauty made him at one 

glance 
More bondsman in his heart than in his 

bonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake, * Behold 

me, Lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 
And if thou keep me in thy donjon here. 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day : for I have sworn my 

vows. 
And thou hast given thy promise, and I 

know 
That all these pains are trials of my faith, 
And that thyself, when thou hast seen me 

strain'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 
Yield me thy love and know me for thy 

knight.' 

Then she began to rail so bitterly, 
With all her damsels, he was stricken 

mute ; 
But when she mock'd his vows and the 

great King, 
Lighted on words : ' For pity of thine 

own self, 
Peace, Lady, peace : is he not thine and 

mine ? ' 
' Thou fool,' she said, ' I never heard his 

voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind him 

now. 
And thrust him out of doors ; for save 

he be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, 
He will return no more.' And those, her 

three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him 

from the gate. 



And after this, a week beyond, again 
She call'd them, saying, 'There he 

watches yet, 
There like a dog before his master's door 1 
Kick'd, he returns : do ye not hate him, 

ye? 
Ye know yourselves : how can ye bide at 

peace, 
Affronted with his fulsome innocence ? 
Are ye but creatures of the board and bed, 
No men to strike? Fall on him all at 

once. 
And if ye slay him I reck not : if ye fail, 
Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in : 
It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds. ' 

She spake ; and at her will they couch'd 

their spears, 
Three against one : and Gawain passing 

by, 
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw 
Low down beneath the shadow of those 

towers 
A villainy, three to one : and thro' his 

heart 
The fire of honour and all noble deeds 
Flash'd, and he call'd, 'I strike upon thy 

side — 
The caitiffs ! ' * Nay,' said Pelleas, * but 

forbear ; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's will.' 

So Gawain, looking at the villainy done. 
Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, with- 
held 
A moment from the vermin that he sees 
Before him, shivers, ere he springs and 
kills. 

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to 

three ; 
And they rose up, and bound, and brought 

him in. 
Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, 

burn'd 
Full on her knights in many an evil name 
Of craven, weakling, and thrice - beaten 

hound : 



438 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



' Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to 

touch, 
Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust 

him out. 
And let who will release him from his 

bonds. 
And if he comes again ' — there she brake 

short ; 
And Pelleas answer'd, 'Lady, for indeed 
I loved you and I deem'd you beautiful, 
I cannot brook to see your beauty marr'd 
Thro' evil spite : and if ye love me not, 
I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn : 
I had liefer ye were worthy of my love. 
Than to be loved again of you — farewell ; 
And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my love. 
Vex not yourself: ye will not see me 

more. ' 

While thus he spake, she gazed upon 

the man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, and 

thought, 
' Why have I push'd him from me ? this 

man loves, 
If love there be : yet him I loved not. 

Why ? 
I deem'd him fool ? yea, so ? or that in 

him 
A something — was it nobler than my- 
self?— 
Seem'd my reproach ? He is not of my 

kind. 
He could not love me, did he know me 

well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly. ' And her 

knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him bounden out 

of door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him 
from his bonds, 

And flung them o'er the walls ; and after- 
ward. 

Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag, 

'Faith of my body,' he said, 'and art 
thou not — 

Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur 
made 

Knight of his table ; yea and he that won 



The circlet ? wherefore hast thou so 

defamed 
Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest. 
As let these caitiffs on thee v/ork their 

will ? ' 

And Pelleas answer'd, ' O, their wills 

are hers 
For whom I won the circlet ; and mine, 

hers. 
Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, 
Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mockery 

now. 
Other than when I found her in the 

woods ; 
And tho' she hath me bounden but in spite, 
And all to flout me, when they bring me 

in. 
Let me be bounden, I shall see her face ; 
Else must I die thro' mine unhappiness. ' 

And Gawain answer'd kindly tho' in 

scorn, 
' Why, let my lady bind me if she will, 
xVnd let my lady beat me if she will : 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
These fighting hands of mine — Christ kill 

me then 
But I will slice him handless by the wrist. 
And let my lady sear the stump for him. 
Howl as he may. But hold me for your 

friend : 
Come, ye know nothing : here I pledge 

my troth. 
Yea, by the honour of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy work. 
And tame thy jailing princess to thine 

hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will 

say 
That I have slain thee. She will let me 

in 
To hear the manner of thy fight and fall ; 
Then, when I come within her counsels, 

then 
From prime to vespers will I chant thy 

praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, more 
Than any have sung thee living, till she 

long 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



439 



To have thee back in lusty life again, 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds 

and warm, 
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now 

thy horse 
And armour : let me go : be comforted : 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, 

and hope 
The third night hence will bring thee 

news of gold.' 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his 

arms. 
Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and 

took 
Gawain's, and said, ' Betray me not, but 

help — 
Art thou not he whom men call light-of- 

love ? ' 

'Ay,' said Gawain, ' for women be so 
light.' 
Then bounded forward to the castle walls, 
And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, 
And winded it, and that so musically 
That all the old echoes hidden in the 

wall 
Rang out like hollow woods at hunting- 
tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the tower ; 
* Avaunt,' they cried, ' our lady loves thee 

not.' 
But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, 
' Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court, 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye 

hate : 
Behold his horse and armour. Open 

gates. 
And I will make you merry.' 

And down they ran. 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, ' Lo ! 
Pelleas is dead — he told us — he that hath 
His horse and armour : will ye let him in ? 
He slew him ! Gawain, Gawain of the 

court, 
Sir Gawain — there he waits below the 

wall. 
Blowing his bugle as who should say him 

nay.' 



And so, leave given, straight on thro' 

open door 
Rode Gawain, whom she greeted cour- 
teously. 
'Dead, is it so?' she ask'd. 'Ay, ay,' 

said he, 
' And oft in dying cried upon your name. ' 
'Pity on him,' she answer'd, 'a good 

knight. 
But never let me bide one hour at peace.' 
'Ay,' thought Gawain, 'and you be fair 

enow : 
But I to your dead man have given my 

troth, 
That whom ye loathe, him will I make 

you love.' 

So those three days, aimless about the 

land. 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought a 

moon 
With promise of large light on woods and 

ways. 

Hot was the night and silent ; but a 

sound 
Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay — 
Which Pelleas had heard sung before the 

Queen, 
And seen her sadden listening — vext his 

heart, 
And marr'd his rest — ' A worm within the 

rose. ' 

'A rose, but one, none other rose had I, 
A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous 

fair. 
One rose, a rose that gladden'd earth and 

sky, 
One rose, my rose, that sweeten'd all 

mine air — 
I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns 

were there. 

' One rose, a rose to gather by and b}', 
One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear. 
No rose but one — what other rose had I ? 
One rose, my rose ; a rose that will not 

die, — 
He dies who loves it, — if the worm be 
there.' 



440 



PEL LEAS AND ETTARRE 



This tender rhyme, and evermore the 


Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 


doubt, 


Creep with his shadow thro' the court 


' Why Hngers Gawain with his golden 


again, 


news?' 


Fingering at his sword-handle until he 


So shook him that he could not rest, but 


stood 


rode 


There on the castle-bridge once more, and 


Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his 


thought, 


horse 


' I will go back, and slay them where they 


Hard by the gates. Wide open were the 


lie.' 


gates. 




And no watch kept ; and in thro' these 


And so went back, and seeing them yet 


he past, 


in sleep 


And heard but his own steps, and his 


Said, ' Ye, that so dishallow the holy 


own heart 


sleep, 


Beating, for nothing moved but his own 


Your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, 


self. 


and thought, 


And his own shadow. Then he crost 


' What ! slay a sleeping knight ? the King 


the court, 


hath bound 


And spied not any light in hall or bower. 


And sworn me to this brotherhood ' ; 


But saw the postern portal also wide 


again. 


Yawning ; and up a slope of garden, all 


' Alas that ever a knight should be so 


Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt 


false.' 


And overgrowing them, went on, and 


Then turn'd, and so return'd, and groan- 


found. 


ing laid 


Here too, all hush'd below the mellow 


The naked sword athwart their naked 


moon. 


throats, 


Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave 


There left it, and them sleeping ; and she 


Came lightening downward, and so spilt 


lay, 


itself 


The circlet of the tourney round her 


Among the roses, and was lost again. 


brows. 




And the sword of the tourney across her 


Then was he ware of three pavilions 


throat. 


rear'd 




Above the bushes, gilden-peakt : in one. 


And forth he past, and mounting on 


Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights 


his horse 


Slumbering, and their three squires across 


Stared at her towers that, larger than 


their feet : 


themselves 


In one, their malice on the placid lip 


In their own darkness, throng'd into the 


Froz'n by sweet sleep, four of her damsels 


moon. 


lay: 


Then crush'd the saddle with his thighs, 


And in the third, the circlet of the jousts 


and clench'd 


Bound on her brow, were Gawain and 


His hands, and madden'd with himself 


Ettarre. 


and moan'd : 


Back, as a hand that pushes thro' the 


' Would they have risen against me in 


leaf 


their blood 


To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew : 


At the last day ? I might have answer'd 


Back, as a coward slinks from what he 


them 


fears 


Even before high God. O towers so 


To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound 


strong. 



PELLEAS AND ETTA R RE 



441 



Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze 
The crack of earthquake shivering to your 

base 
Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot 

roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'd you thro' and thro' 

within, 
Black as the harlot's heart — hollow as a 

skull ! 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your eyelet- 
holes. 
And whirl the dust of harlots round and 

round 
In dung and nettles ! hiss, snake — I saw 

him there — 
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who 

yells 
Here in the still sweet summer night, but 

I— 
I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd her 

fool? 
Fool, beast — he, she, or I ? myself most 

fool; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit — dis- 
graced, 
Dishonour'd all for trial of true love — 
Love ? — we be all alike : only the King 
Hath made us fools and liars. O noble 

vows ! 

great and sane and simple race of brutes 
That own no lust because they have no 

law ! 
For why should I have loved her to my 
shame ? 

1 loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. 
I never loved her, I but lusted for her — 
Away — ' 

He dash'd the rowel into his horse, 
And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' the 
night. 

Then she, that felt the cold touch on 

her throat, 
Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd 

herself 
To Gawain : ' Liar, for thou hast not slain 
This Pelleas ! here he stood, and might 

have slain 
Me and thyself. ' And he that tells the tale 



Says that her ever-veering fancy turn'd 
To Pelleas, as the one true knight on 

earth. 
And only lover ; and thro' her love her 

life 
Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain. 

But he by wild and way, for half the 

night. 
And over hard and soft, striking the sod 
From out the soft, the spark from off the 

hard. 
Rode till the star above the wakening sun. 
Beside that tower where Percivale was 

cowl'd. 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the 

dawn. 
For so the words were flash'd into his 

heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore : ' O 

sweet star. 
Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn ! ' 
And there he would have wept, but felt 

his eyes 
Harder and drier than a fountain bed 
In summer : thither came the village girls 
And linger'd talking, and they come no 

more 
Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it from 

the heights 
Again with living waters in the change 
Of seasons : hard his eyes ; harder his 

heart 
Seem'd ; but so weary were his limbs, 

that he. 
Gasping, 'Of Arthur's hall am I, but here, 
Here let me rest and die,' cast himself 

down. 
And gulf 'd his griefs in inmost sleep ; so 

lay. 
Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired 
The hall of Merlin, and the morning star 
Reel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, 

and fell. 

He woke, and being ware of some one 

nigh. 
Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, 

crying, 
'False ! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.' 



442 



PELLEAS AND ETTA R RE 



But Percivale stood near him and 
replied, 

' Am I but false as Guinevere is pure ? 

Or art thou mazed with dreams ? or being 
one 

Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard 

That Lancelot ' — there he check'd him- 
self and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with 

one 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword 
That made it plunges thro' the wound 

again, 
And pricks it deeper : and he shrank and 

wail'd, 
' Is the Queen false ? ' and Percivale was 

mute. 
' Have any of our Round Table held their 

vows ? ' 
And Percivale made answer not a word. 
' Is the King true ? ' ' The King ! ' said 

Percivale. 
' Why then let men couple at once with 

wolves. 
Wliat ! art thou mad ? ' 

But Pelleas, leaping up, 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his 

horse 
And fled : small pity upon his horse had 

he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he met 
A cripple, one that held a hand for alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old dwarf- 
elm 
That turns its back on the salt blast, the 

boy 
Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, 

' False, 
And false with Gawain ! ' and so left him 

bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill and 

wood 
Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, 
That follows on the turning of the world, 
Darken'd the common path : he twitch'd 

the reins. 
And made his beast that better knew it, 

swerve 



Now off it and now on ; but when he saw 
High up in heaven the hall that Merlin 

built. 
Blackening against the dead-green stripes 

of even, 
' Black nest of rats,' he groan'd, ' ye build 

too high.' 

Not long thereafter from the city gates 
Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily. 
Warm with a gracious parting from the 

Queen, 
Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star 
And marvelling what it was : on whom 

the boy. 
Across the silent seeded meadow-grass 
Borne, clash'd* and Lancelot, saying, 

' What name hast thou 
That ridest here so blindly and so 

hard ? ' 
'No name, no name,' he shouted, 'a 

scourge am I 
To lash the treasons of the Table Round. ' 
' Yea, but thy name ? ' 'I have many 

names,' he cried : 
' I am wrath and shame and hate and evil 

fame, 
And like a poisonous wind I pass to 

blast 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the 

Queen.' 
'First over me,' said Lancelot, ' shalt 

thou pass.' 
' Fight therefore,' yell'd the youth, and 

either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they closed, 

at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas floundering 

flung 
His rider, who call'd out from the dark 

field, 
' Thou art false as Hell : slay me : I have 

no sword.' 
Then Lancelot, ' Yea, between thy lips — 

and sharp ; 
But here will I disedge it by thy death.' 
' Slay then,' he shriek'd, ' my will is to be 

slain,' 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the 

fall'n. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



443 



Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then 

spake : 
' Rise, weakling ; I am Lancelot ; say thy 

say.' 

And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse 

back 
To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while 
Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark 

field, 
And follow'd to the city. It chanced that 

both 
Brake into hall together, worn and pale. 
There with her knights and dames was 

Guinevere. 
Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot 
So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, 

him 
Who had not greeted her, but cast him- 
self 
Down on a bench, hard-breathing. ' Have 

ye fought ? ' 
She ask'd of Lancelot. ' Ay, my Queen,' 

he said. 
' And thou hast overthrown him ? ' ' Ay, 

my Queen.' 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, ' O young 

knight. 
Hath the great heart of knighthood in 

thee fail'd 
So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, 
A fall from hitn ? ' Then, for he answer'd 

not, 
' Or hast thou other griefs ? If I, the 

Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and let 

me know.' 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 
She quail'd ; and he, hissing ' I have no 

sword,' 
Sprang from the door into the dark. 

The Queen 
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on her ; 
And each foresaw the dolorous day to 

be: 
And all talk died, as in a grove all song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey ; 
Then a long silence came upon the hall. 
And Modrcd thought, ' The time is hard 

at hand.' 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his 

mood 
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
At Camelot, high above the yellowing 

woods, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. 
And toward him from the hall, with harp 

in hand. 
And from the crown thereof a carcanet 
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize 
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday. 
Came Tristram, saying, 'Why skip ye 

so. Sir Fool ? ' 

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot ridingonce 
Far down beneath a winding wall of rock 
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak 

half-dead. 
From roots like some black coil of carven 

snakes, 
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' 

mid air 
Bearing an eagle's nest : and thro' the tree 
Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the 

wind 
Pierced ever a child's cry : and crag and 

tree 
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous 

nest, 
This ruby necklace thrice around her neck. 
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, 

brought 
A maiden babe ; which Arthur pitying 

took, 
Then gave it to his Queen to rear : the 

Queen 
But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderly. 
And named it Nestling ; so forgot herself 
A moment, and her cares ; till that young 

life 
Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal 

cold 
Past from her ; and in time the carcanet 
Vext her with plaintive memories of the 

child : 



444 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 
' Take thou the jewels of this dead in- 
nocence. 
And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney- 
prize.' 

To whom the King, ' Peace to thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead nestling, and this honour after 

death, 
Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, 

I muse 
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or 

zone 
Those diamonds that I rescued from the 

tarn, 
And Lancelot won, methought, for thee 

to wear.' 

'Would rather you had let them fall,' 

she cried, 
' Plunge and be lost — ill-fated as they 

were, 
A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed, 
Not knowing they were lost as soon as 

given — 
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning 

out 
Above the river — that unhappy child 
Past in her barge : but rosier luck will go 
With these rich jewels, seeing that they 

came 
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer. 
But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 
Perchance — who knows? — the purest of 

thy knights 
May win them for the purest of my maids. ' 

She ended, and the cry of a great jousts 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the 

ways 
From Camelot in among the faded fields 
To furthest towers ; and everywhere the 

knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. 

But on the hither side of that loud morn 
Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd 
From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his 
nose 



Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand 

off, 
And one with shatter'd fingers dangling 

lame, 
A churl, to whom indignantly the King, 

' My churl, for whom Christ died, what 

evil beast 
Hatli drawn his claws athwart thy face ? 

or fiend ? 
Man was it who marr'd heaven's image 

in thee thus ? ' 

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of 

splinter'd teeth. 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with 

blunt stump 
Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the 

maim'd churl, 

' He took them and he drave them to 

his tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of thine — ' 
A hundred goodly ones — the Red Knight, 

he— 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red 

Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave them to his 

tower ; 
And when I call'd upon thy name as one 
That doest right by gentle and by churl, 
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would out- 
right have slain. 
Save that he sware me to a message, 

saying, 
"Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I 
Have founded my Round Table in the 

North, 
And whatsoever his own knights have 

sworn 
My knights have sworn the counter to 

it — and say 
My tower is full of harlots, like his court. 
But mine are worthier, seeing they profess 
To be none other than themselves — and say 
My knights are all adulterers like his own. 
But mine are truer, seeing they profess 
To be none other ; and say his hour is come, 
The heathen are upon him, his long lance 
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'" 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



445 



Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the sene- 
schal, 
' Take thou my churl, and tend him 

curiously 
Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be 

whole. 
The heathen — but that ever -climbing 

wave, 
Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, 
Hath lain for years at rest — and renegades. 
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, 

whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of other- 
where, 
Friends, thro' your manhood and your 

fealty, — now 
Make their last head like Satan in the 

North. 
My younger knights, new-made, in whom 

your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, 
Move with me toward their quelling, 

which achieved. 
The loneliest ways are safe from shore to 

shore. 
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field ; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle 

with it, 
Only to yield my Queen her own again ? 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent : is it 

well ? ' 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, ' It is 
well : 
Vet better if the King abide, and leave 
The leading of his younger knights to me. 
Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well.' 

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd 

him. 
And while they stood without the doors, 

the King 
Turn'd to him saying, 'Is it then so well? 
Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he 
Of whom was written, "A sound is in his 

ears " ? 
The foot that loiters, bidden go, — the 

glance 
That only seems half-loyal to command, — 



A manner somewhat fall'n from rever- 
ence — 

Or have I dream'd the bearing of our 
knights 

Tells of a manhood ever less and lower ? 

Or whence the fear lest this my realm, 
uprear'd. 

By noble deeds at one with noble vows. 

From flat confusion and brute violences. 

Reel back into the beast, and be no 
more ? ' 

He spoke, and taking all his younger 

knights, 
Down the slope city rode, and sharply 

turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high bower 

the Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, 
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that 

she sigh'd. 
Then ran across her memory the strange 

rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, ' Where is he who 

knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep he 

goes.' 

But when the morning of a tournament, 
By these in earnest those in mockery call'd 
The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, 
Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, 
Round whose sick head all night, like 

birds of prey. 
The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose. 
And down a street way hung with folds of 

pure 
White samite, and by fountains running 

wine. 
Where children sat in white with cups of 

gold, 
Moved to the lists, and there, with slow 

sad steps 
Ascending, fiU'd his double - dragon'd 

chair. 

He glanced and sawthestatelygalleries, 
Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their 

Queen 
White-robed in honour of the stainless 

child. 



446 



rilE LAST TOURNAMENT 



And some wilh .scatter'd jewels, like a 

bank 
Of maiden snow min<;led wilh sparks of 

fire, 
lie lookM but once, and vaiTil his eyes 

again. 

The siulden (rmnj^et sounded as in a 

dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll 
Of Autunm thunder, and the jousts began : 
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf 
And gloom and gleam, and shower and 

shorn jjlume 
Went d(.)vvn it. Sighing weariedly, as one 
Who sits and gazes on a faded fne. 
When all the goodlier guests are past awav, 
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the 

lists. 
lie saw the laws that ruled the tournament 
Broken, but spake not ; onee, a knight 

cast down 
Hef(^re his throne of arbitration cursed 
The dead babe and the follies of the King ; 
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd. 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, 
Modred, a narrow face : anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the barriers 

roar 
An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, 
liut newly-enter'd, taller than the rest. 
And armourVl all in forest green, whereon 
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer. 
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, 
With ever-scattering berries, and on shield 
A spear, a harp, a bugle — Tristram — late 
Vxo\\\. overseas in Brittany return'd. 
And marriage with a princess of that realm, 
Isolt the White— Sir Tristram of the 

Woods — 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime 

with pain 
1 lis t)wn against him, and now yearn'd to 

shake 
Tlie burthen off bis heart in one full shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death : his strong 

hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and left. 
Until he groan'd for wrath — so many of 

those, 



That ware their ladies' colours on the 

casque. 
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the 

bounds, 
And there with gibes and flickering 

mockeries 
Stood, while he mutter'd, 'Craven crests! 

O shame ! 
What faith have these in whom they sware 

to love ? 
The glory of our Round Table is no more.' 

So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, 

the gems. 
Not speaking other word than 'Hast thou 

won ? 
Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand 
Wherewith thou takest this, is red ! ' to 

whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's 

languorous mood. 
Made answer, 'Ay, but wherefore toss 

me this 
Like adry bone cast to some hungry hound? 
Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength 

of heart 
Andmight of limb, but mainly useand skill, 
Are winners in this pastime of our King. 
My hand — belike the lance hath dript 

upon it— - 
No blood of mine, I trow ; but O chief 

knight. 
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield. 
Great brc)ther, thou nor I have made the 

world ; 
Re happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.' 

And Tristram round the gallery made 

his horse 
Caracole ; then bow'd his homage, bluntly 

saying, 
' l"'air damsels, each to him who worshi[is 

each 
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold 
This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.' 
And most of these were mute, someanger'd, 

one 
Murmuring, 'All courtesy is dead,' and 

one, 
' The gk»ry of our Rouml Table is no more.' 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



447 



Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and 

mantle clung, 
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day 
Went glooming down in wet and weari- 
ness : 
But under her black brows a swarthy one 
Laugh'd shrilly, crying, 'Praise the patient 

saints, 
Our one white day of Innocence hath i)as(, 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So 

be it. 
The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the 

year, 
Would make the world as blank as 

Winter-tide. 
Come — let us gladden their sad eyes, our 

Queen's 
And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity 
With all the kindlier colours of the field.' 

So dame and damsel glilter'd at the 

feast 
Variously gay : for he that tells the talc 
Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour of 

cold 
l''alls on the mountain in midsummer 

snows, 
And all the purple slopes of mountain 

flowers 
Tass under white, till the warm hour 

returns 
With veer of wind, and all are flowers 

again ; 
So dame and damsel cast the simple white. 
And glowing in all colours, the live grass, 
Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, 

glanced 
About the revels, and with mirth so loud 
Beyond all use, that, lialf-amazed, the 

Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless 

jousts. 
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her 

bower 
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. 

And little Dagonet on the morrow 
morn. 
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, 
Danced like a wilher'd leaf before tlie hall. 



Then Tristram saying, ' Why skip ye so, 

Sir Fool ? ' 
Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet 

replied, 
' Belike for lack of wiser comj)any ; 
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit 
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip 
'I'o know myself tlie wisest knight of all.' 
'Ay, fool,' said Tristram, 'but 'tis eating 

dry 
To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
T(j dance to.' Then he twangled on his 

harp, 
And while he twangled little Dagonetstood 
(^uiet as any water-sodden log 
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook ; 
But when the twanglingended, skipt again ; 
And being ask'd, ' Why skipt ye not, Sir 

Fool?' 
Made answer, * I had liefer twenty years 
Skip to the broken music of my brains 
Than any broken music thou canst make.' 
Then Tristram, waiting fn- the (juip to 

come, 
'Good now, what music have I broken, 

fool ? ' 
y\nd little Dagonet, skii)i)ing, ' Arthur, 

the King's ; 
l''or when thou playesl that air with (^iieen 

Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with tliy bride, 
I ler daintier namesake down in Brittany — 
And so thou breakest Arthur's music too.' 
' Save for that broken music in thy brains, 
Sir fool,' said Tristram, * I would break 

thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were 

o'er, 
The life had flown, we sware but by the 

shell— 
I am but a fool to reason with a fool — 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour : but 

lean me down, 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, 
And harken if my music be not true. 

' " Free love — free field — we love l)ut 
while we may : 
The woods are husli'd, their music is no 
more : 



44S 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



The leaf is dead, the yearning past away : 
New leaf, new life — the days of frost are 

o'er : 
New life, new love, to suit the newer day : 
New loves are sweet as those that went 

before : 
Free love — free field — we love but while 

we may," 

' Ye might have moved slow-measure 

to my tune, 
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the 

woods, 
And heard it ring as true as tested gold.' 

But Dagonet with one foot poised in 

his hand, 
' Friend, did ye mark that fountain 

yesterday 
Made to run wine ? — but this had run 

itself 
All out like a long life to a sour end — 
And them that round it sat with golden 

cups 
To hand the wine to whosoever came — 
The twelve small damosels white as 

Innocence, 
In honour of poor Innocence the babe, 
Who left the gems which Innocence the 

Queen 
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King 
Gave for a prize — and one of those white 

slips 
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 
" Drink, drink. Sir Fool," and thereupon 

I drank, 
Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the 

draught was mud.' 

And Tristram, ' Was it muddier than 

thy gibes ? 
Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?— 
Not marking how the knighthood mock 

thee, fool — 
' ' Fear God : honour the King — his one 

true knight — 
Sole follower of the vows " — for here be 

they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I came, 
Smuttier than blasted grain : but when 

the King 



Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out thy heart ; 
Which left thee less than fool, and less 

than swine, 
A naked aught — yet swine I hold thee still, 
For I have flung thee pearls and find thee 

swine.' 

And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, 
' Knight, an ye fling those rubies round 

my neck 
In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some 

touch 
Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. 
Swine ? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd 

— the world 
Is flesh and shadow — I have had my day. 
The dirty nurse. Experience, in her kind 
Hath foul'd me — an I wallow'd, then I 

wash'd — 
I have had my day and my philosophies — 
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's 

fool. 
Swine, say ye ? swine, goats, asses, rams 

and geese 
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, 

who thrumm'd 
On such a wire as musically as thou 
Some such fine song — but never a king's 

fool.' 

And Tristram, ' Then were swine, 
goats, asses, geese 
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harp his wife up out of hell. ' 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of 

his foot, 
' And whither harp'st thou thine ? down ! 

and thyself 
Down ! and two more : a helpful harper 

thou. 
That harpest downward ! Dost thou know 

the star 
We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?' 

And Tristram, ' Ay, Sir Fool, for when 
our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the 
knights, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



449 



Glorying in each new glory, set his name 
High on all hills, and in the signs of 
heaven. ' 

And Dagonet answer'd, ' Ay, and when 

the land 
.Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set 

yourself 
To babble about him, all to show your 

wit — 
And whether he were King by courtesy. 
Or King by right — and so went harping 

down 
The black king's highway, got so far, and 

grew 
So witty that ye play'd at ducks and 

drakes 
With Arthur's vows on the great lake of 

fire. 
Tuwhoo ! do ye see it ? do ye see the 

star ? ' 

*Nay, fool,' said Tristram, 'not in 

open day.' 
And Dagonet, ' Nay, nor will : I see it 

and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven, 
And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, 
And then we skip.' ' Lo, fool,' he said, 

' ye talk 
Fool's treason : is the King thy brother 

fool?' 
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and 

shrill'd, 
*Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of 

fools ! 
Conceits himself as God that he can make 
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk 
From burning spurge, honey from hornet- 
combs. 
And men from beasts — Long live the king 

of fools ! ' 

And down the city Dagonet danced 
away ; 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and 

the west. 
Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
T 



Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood 
Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye 
For all that walk'd, or crept, or perch'd, 

or flew. 
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 

blown, 
Unruffling waters re-collect the shape 
Of one that in them sees himself, return'd ; 
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer. 
Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. 

At length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs 
Furze-cramm'd, and bracken -rooft, the 

which himself 
Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt 
Against a shower, dark in the golden 

grove 
Appearing, sent his fancy back to where 
She lived a moon in that low lodge with 

him : 
Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish 

King, 
With six or seven, when Tristram was 

away. 
And snatch'd her thence ; yet dreading 

worse than shame 
Her warrior Tristram, spake not any 

word. 
But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. 

And now that desert lodge to Tristram 

lookt 
So sweet, that halting, in he past, and 

sank 
Down on a drift of foliage random-blown ; 
But could not rest for musing how to 

smoothe 
And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. 
Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all 
The tonguesters of the court she had not 

heard. 
But then what folly had sent him overseas 
After she left him lonely here ? a name ? 
Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the King ? ' Isolt 
Of the white hands ' they call'd her : the 

sweet name 

2 G 



450 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



Allured him first, and then the maid her- 
self, 

Who served him well with those white 
hands of hers. 

And loved him well, until himself had 
thought 

He loved her also, wedded easily. 

But left her all as easily, and return'd. 

The black -blue Irish hair and Irish eyes 

Had drawn him home — what marvel? 
then he laid 

His brows upon the drifted leaf and 
dream'd. 

He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride. 
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, 

and both 
Began to struggle for it, till his Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. 
Then cried the Breton, ' Look, her hand 

is red ! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen blood. 
And melts within her hand — her hand is 

hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look. 
Is all as cool and white as any flower.' 
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then 
A whimpering of the spirit of the child. 
Because the twain had spoil'd her car- 

canet. 

He dream'd ; but Arthur with a hun- 
dred spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed. 
And many a glancing plash and sallowy 

isle. 
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated tower 
That stood with open doors, whereout 

was roll'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. 
' Lo there,' said one of Arthur's youth, 

for there, 
High on a grim dead tree before the tower, 
A goodly brother of the Table Round 
Sv/ung by the neck : and on the boughs 
a shield 



Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, 
And therebeside a horn, inflamed the 

knights 
At that dishonour done the gilded spur, 
Till each would clash the shield, and blow 

the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back. Alone he 

rode. 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the great 

horn, 
That sent the face of all the marsh aloft 
An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight 

heard, and all, 
Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm. 
In blood-red armour sallying, howl'd to 

the King, 

' The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash 

thee flat ! — 
Lo ! art thou not that eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who fain had dipt free manhood from 

the world — 
The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's 

curse, and I ! 
Slain was the brother of my paramour 
By a knight of thine, and I that heard 

her whine 
And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists 

in hell. 
And stings itself to everlasting death, 
To hang whatever knight of thine I fought 
And tumbled. Art thou King? — Look 

to thy life ! ' 

He ended : Arthur knew the voice ; the 

face 
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the 

name 
Went wandering somewhere darkling in 

his mind. 
And Arthur deign'd not use of word or 

sword. 
But let the drunkard, as he stretched from 

horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to the 

swamp 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



451 



Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching 


He whistled his good warhorse left to 


wave, 


graze 


Heard in dead night along that table- 


Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, 


shore. 


And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, 


Drops flat, and after the great waters 


Till one lone woman, weeping near a 


break 


cross. 


Whitening for half a league, and thin 


Stay'd him. ' Why weep ye ? ' ' Lord,' 


themselves, 


she said, ' my man 


Far over sands marbled with moon and 


Hath left me or is dead ' ; whereon he 


cloud, 


thought — 


From less and less to nothing ; thus he fell 


' What, if she hate me now ? I would 


Head-heavy ; then the knights, who 


not this. 


watch'd him, roar'd 


What, if she love me still ? I would not 


And shouted and leapt down upon the 


that. 


fall'n ; 


I know not what I would ' — but said to 


There trampled out his face from being 


her, 


known. 


' Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate 


And sank his head in mire, and slimed 


return. 


themselves : 


He find thy favour changed and love thee 


Nor heard the King for their own cries. 


not ' — 


but sprang 


Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonnesse 


Thro' open doors, and swording right and 


Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard 


left 


The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly 


Men, women, on their sodden faces, 


hounds 


hurl'd 


Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and 


The tables over and the wines, and slew 


gain'd 


Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, 


Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, 


And all the pavement stream'd with 


A crown of towers. 


massacre : 




Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired 


Down in a casement sat, 


the tower. 


A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair 


Which half that autumn night, like the 


And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the 


live North, 


Queen. 


Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, 


And when she heard the feet of Tristram 


Made all above it, and a hundred meres 


grind 


About it, as the water Moab saw 


The spiring stone that scaled about her 


Come round by the East, and out beyond 


tower, 


them flush'd 


Flush'd, started, met him at the doors. 


The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. 


and there 




Belted his body with her white embrace, 


So all the ways were safe from shore to 


Crying aloud, ' Not Mark — not Mark, 


shore. 


my soul ! 


But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. 


The footstep flutter'd me at first : not he : 




Catlike thro' his own castle steals my 


Then, out of Tristram waking, the red 


Mark, 


dream 


But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' his 


Fled with a shout, and that low lodge 


halls 


return'd, 


Who hates thee, as I him — ev'n to the 


Mid -forest, and the wind among the 


death. 


boughs. 


My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark 



452 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



Quicken within me, and knew that thou 

wert nigh.' 
To whom Sir Tristram smiHng, ' I am 

here. 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.' 

And drawing somewhat backward she 

rephed, 
' Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his 

own, 
But save for dread of thee had beaten me, 
Scratch'd, bitten, Winded, marr'd me 

somehow — Mark ? 
What rights are his that dare not strike 

for them ? 
Not Hft a hand — not, tho' he found me 

thus ! 
But barken ! have ye met him ? hence he 

went 
To-day for three days' hunting — as he 

said — 
And so returns beUke within an hour. 
Mark's way, my soul ! — but eat not thou 

with Mark, 
Because he hates thee even more than 

fears ; 
Nor drink : and when thou passest any 

wood 
Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark and 

hell. 
My God, the measure of my hate for 

Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for thee.' 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and one 

by love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and 

spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, 

saying, 
' O hunter, and O blower of the horn. 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, 
For, ere I mated with my shambling king, 
Ye twain had fallen out about the bride 
Of one — his name is out of me — the prize, 
If prize she were — (what marvel — she 

could see) — 
Thine, friend ; and ever since my craven 

seeks 



To wreck thee villainously : but, O Sir 

Knight, 
What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd to 

last ? ' 

And Tristram, ' Last to my Queen 

Paramount, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of love 
And loveliness — ay, lovelier than when 

first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, 
Sailing from Ireland.' 

Softly laugh'd Isolt ; 
' Flatter me not, for hath not our great 

Queen 
My dole of beauty trebled ? ' and he said, 
' Her beauty is her beauty, and thine 

thine. 
And thine is more to me — soft, gracious, 

kind — 
Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips 
Most gracious ; but she, haughty, ev'n to 

him, 
Lancelot ; for I have seen him wan enow 
To make one doubt if ever the great Queen 
Have 3delded him her love.' 

To whom Isolt, 
' Ah then, false hunter and false harper, 

thou 
Who brakest thro' the scruple of my 

bond, 
Calling me thy white hind, and saying 

to me 
That Guinevere had sinn'd against the 

highest. 
And I — misyoked with such a want of 

man — 
That I could hardly sin against the lowest.' 

He answer'd, * O my soul, be com- 
forted ! 
If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, 
If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, 
Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning 

sin 
That made us happy : but how ye greet 

me — fear 
And fault and doubt — no word of that 
fond tale — 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



453 



Thy deep heart -yearnings, thy sweet 


And Isolt answered, ' Yea, and why 


memories 


not I? 


Of Tristram in that year he was away. ' 


Mine is the larger need, who am not meek. 




Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell 


And, saddening on the sudden, spake 


thee now. 


Isolt, 


Here one black, mute midsummer night 


' I had forgotten all in my strong joy 


I sat, 


To see thee — yearnings ? — ay ! for, hour 


Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering 


by hour, 


where. 


Here in the never-ended afternoon, 


Murmuring a light song I had heard thee 


O sweeter than all memories of thee. 


sing. 


Deeper than any yearnings after thee 


And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. 


Seem'd those far -rolling, westward - 


Then flash'd a levin-brand ; and near me 


smiling seas, 


stood, 


Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of Britain 


In fuming sulphur blue and green, a 


dash'd 


fiend — 


Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand. 


Mark's way to steal behind one in the 


Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? 


dark— 


Wedded her ? 


For there was Mark : " He has wedded 


Fought in her father's battles ? wounded 


her," he said. 


there ? 


Not said, but hiss'd it : then this crown 


The King was all fulfill'd with grateful- 


of towers 


ness, 


So shook to such a roar of all the sky, 


And she, my namesake of the hands, that 


That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, 


heal'd 


And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 


Thy hurt and heart with unguent and 


' ' I will flee hence and give myself to 


caress — 


God "— 


Well — can I wish her any huger wrong 


And thou wert lying in thy new leman's 


Than having known thee? her too hast 


arms. 


thou left 




To pine and waste in those sweet 


Then Tristram, ever dallying with her 


memories. 


hand, 


O were I not my Mark's, by whom all 


' May God be with thee, sweet, when old 


men 


and gray, 


Are noble, I should hate thee more than 


And past desire ! ' a saying that anger'd 


love.' 


her. 




' "May God be with thee, sweet, when 


And Tristram, fondling her light hands, 


thou art old. 


replied. 


And sweet no more to me ! " I need 


* Grace, Queen, for being loved : she 


Him now. 


loved me well. 


For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so 


Did I love her? the name at least I loved. 


gross 


Isolt ? — I fought his battles, for Isolt ! 


Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the 


The night was dark ; the true star set. 


mast? 


Isolt ! 


The greater man, the greater courtesy. 


The name was ruler of the dark Isolt? 


Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's 


Care not for her ! patient, and prayerful. 


knight ! 


meek, 


But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild 


Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to 


beasts — 


God.' 


Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance 



454 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



Becomes thee well — art grown wild beast 

thyself. 
How darest thou, if lover, push me even 
In fancy from thy side, and set me far 
In the gray distance, half a life away, 
Her to be loved no more ? Unsay it, 

unswear ! 
Platter me rather, seeing me so weak, 
Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, 
Thy marriage and mine own, that I 

should suck 
Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. 
Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye 

kneel. 
And solemnly as when ye sware to him, 
The man of men, our King — My God, 

the power 
Was once in vows when men believed the 

King ! 
They lied not then, who sware, and thro' 

their vows 
The King prevailing made his realm : — 

I say. 
Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when 

old, 
Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in de- 
spair.' 

Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and 

down, 
'Vows! did you keep the vow you made 

to Mark 
More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, 

but learnt. 
The vow that binds too strictly snaps 

itself— 
My knighthood taught me this — ay, being 

snapt — ■ 
We run more counter to the soul thereof 
Than had we never sworn. I swear no 

more. 
I swore to the great King, and am for- 
sworn. 
For once — ev'n to the height — I honour'd 

him. 
"Man, is he man at all?" methought, 

when first 
I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and 

beheld 
That victor of the Pagan throned in hall — 



His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow 
Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel- 
blue eyes, 
The golden beard that clothed his lips 

with light — 
Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, 
With Merlin's mystic babble about his end 
Amazed me ; then, his foot was on a stool 
Shaped as a dragon ; he seem'd to me no 

man. 
But Michael trampling Satan ; so I sware, 
Being amazed : but this went by — The 

vows ! 
O ay — the wholesome madness of an 

hour — 
They served their use, their time ; for 

every knight 
Believed himself a greater than himself. 
And every follower eyed him as a God ; 
Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, 
Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had 

done. 
And so the realm was made ; but then 

their vows — 
First mainly thro' that sullying of our 

Queen — 
Began to gall the knighthood, asking 

whence 
Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? 
Dropt down from heaven ? wash'd up 

from out the deep ? 
They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh 

and blood 
Of our old kings : whence then ? a doubt- 
ful lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows, 
Which flesh and blood perforce would 

violate : 
For feel this arm of mine — the tide within 
Red with free chase and heather-scented 

air. 
Pulsing full man ; can Arthur make me 

pure 
As any maiden child ? lock up my tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely hear ? 
Bind me to one? The wide world 

laughs at it. 
And worldling of the world am I, and 

know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



455 



Woos his own end ; we are not angels here 
Nor shall be : vows — I am woodman of 

the woods, 
And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale 
Mock them : my soul, we love but while 

we may ; 
And therefore is my love so large for thee. 
Seeing it is not bounded save by love.' 

Here ending, he moved toward her, 
and she said, 
' Good : an I turn'd away my l©ve for thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as thy- 
self— 
For courtesy wins woman all as well 
As valour may, but he that closes both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller indeed. 
Rosier and comelier, thou — but say I loved 
This knightliest of all knights, and cast 

thee back 
Thine own small saw, ' ' We love but 

while we may," 
Well then, what answer ? ' 

He that while she spake. 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn her 

with. 
The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch 
The warm white apple of her throat, 

replied, 
' Press this a little closer, sweet, until — 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd — 

meat. 
Wine, wine — and I will love thee to the 

death. 
And out beyond into the dream to come. ' 

So then, when both were brought to 

full accord, 
She rose, and set before him all he will'd ; 
And after these had comforted the blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated their 

hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland paradise. 
The deer, the dews, the fern, tke founts, 

the lawns ; 
Now mocking at the much ungainliness, 
And craven shifts, and long crane legs of 

Mark- 
Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, 

and sang : 



'Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bend 

the brier ! 
A star in heaven, a star within the mere ! 
Ay, ay, O ay — a star was my desire, 
And one was far apart, and one was near : 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bow the 

grass ! 
And one was water and one star was fire, 
And one will ever shine and one will pass. 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that move the 

mere.' 

Then in the light's last glimmer Tris- 
tram show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, 
' The collar of some Order, which 'our 

King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy 
peers.' 

* Not so, my Queen,' he said, 'but the 

red fruit 
Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, 
And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, 
And hither brought by Tristram for his 

last 
Love - offering and peace-offering unto 

thee.' 

He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging 

round her neck, 
Claspt it, and cried ' Thine Order, O my 

Queen ! ' 
But, while he bow'd to kiss the jewell'd 

throat. 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had 

touch'd. 
Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek — 
' Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove him 

thro' the brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and 

while he climb'd. 
All in a death -dumb autumn -dripping 

gloom. 
The stairway to the hall, and look'd and 

saw 
The great Queen's bower was dark, — 

about his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, 



456 



GUINE VERE 



' What art thou ? ' and the voice about his 

feet 
Sent up an answer, sobbing, ' I am thy 

fool, 
And I shall never make thee smile again. ' 

GUINEVERE 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, 

and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice : one low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the 

face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land 

was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of 

flight 
Sir Modred ; he that like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 

throne. 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : for 

this 
He chill'd the popular praises of the King 
With silent smiles of slow disparagement ; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the 

White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; and 

sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all his 

aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lance- 
lot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when 

all the court. 
Green - suited, but with plumes that 

mock'd the may, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and 

return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, 



Climb'd to the high top of the garden- 
wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might. 
And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her 

best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst ; and more 

than this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 
Spied where he couch'd, and as the 

gardener's hand 
Picks from the colewort a green cater- 
pillar. 
So from the high wall and the flowering 

grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the 

heel. 
And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 
But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd 

with dust. 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, 
Made such excuses as he might, and these 
Full knightly without scorn ; for in those 

days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in 

scorn ; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 
By those whom God had made fuU-limb'd 

and tall. 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 
And he was answer'd softly by the King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice or 

thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, .5 

and went : fl 

But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and ruflied all his heart, 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she 

laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who 

cries 
' I shudder, some one steps across my 

grave ' ; 



GUINEVERE 



457 



Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for in- 
deed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, and 

hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in 

hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent 

eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend 

the soul. 
To help it from the death that cannot die. 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for 

hours. 
Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and 

went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creaking 

doors. 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted house. 
That keeps the rust of murder on the 

walls — 
Held her av.'ake : or if she slept, she 

dream'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd to 

stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun. 
And from the sun there swiftly made at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 
Before it, till it touch'd her, and she 

turn'd — 
When lo ! her own, that broadening from 

her feet, 
And blackening, swallow'd all the land, 

and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but grew ; 
Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless 

King, 
And trustful courtesies of household life. 
Became her bane ; and at the last she 

said, 
' O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own 

land. 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again, 
A.nd if we meet again, some evil chance 



Will make the smouldering scandal break 

and blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the King. 
And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 

main'd. 
And still they met and met. Again she 

said, 
' O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 

hence.' 
And then they were agreed upon a night 
(When the good King should not be there) 

to meet 
And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard. 
She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they 

met 
And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye 

to eye 
Low on the border of her couch they sat 
Stammering and staring. It was their 

last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the tower 
For testimony ; and crying with full voice 
' Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' 

aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, 

and he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare 

him off, 
And all was still : then she, ' The end is 

come, 
And I am shamed for ever ' ; and he said, 
' Mine be the shame ; mine was the sin : 

but rise. 
And fly to my strong castle overseas : 
There will I hide thee, till my life shall end, 
There hold thee with my life against the 

world.' 
She answer'd, ' Lancelot, wilt thou hold 

me so? 
Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells. 
Would God that thou couldst hide me 

from myself ! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 
Un wedded : yet rise now, and let us fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary. 
And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got 

her horse, 



458 



GUINEVERE 



Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, 
And then they rode to the divided way. 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for 

he past, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 
Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury 
Fled all night long by glimmering waste 

and weald, 
And heard the Spirits of the waste and 

weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 

them moan : 
And in herself she moan'd ' Too late, too 

late ! ' 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

morn, 
A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, ' He spies a 

field of death ; 
For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of the 

court, 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land, ' 

And when she came to Almesbury she 

spake 
There to the nuns, and said, * Mine 

enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name to whom ye yield it, till her 

time 
To tell you ' : and her beauty, grace and 

power. 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and 

they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the 

nuns ; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, 

nor sought. 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for 

shrift. 
But communed only with the little maid. 
Who pleased her with a babbling heed- 
lessness 
Which often lured her from herself; but 
now. 



This night, a rumour wildly blown about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd the 

realm. 
And leagued him with the heathen, while 

the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then she 

thought, 
' With what a hate the people and the 

King 
Must hate me,' and bow'd down upon 

her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering ' Late ! so 

late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now ? ' and when 

she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; ' Late, 

so late ! ' 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd 

up, and said, 
' O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may 

weep.' 
Wliereat full willingly sang the little 

maid. 

' Late, late, so late ! and dark the 
night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

' No light had we : for that we do 

repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will 

relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

' No light : so late ! and dark and chill 
the night ! 
O let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late : ye cannot enter now. 

' Have we not heard the bridegroom is 
so sweet ? 
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now.' 

So sang the novice, while full passion- 
ately. 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 



GUINEVERE 



459 



Her thought when first she came, wept 

the sad Queen. 
Then said the little novice prattling to her, 

' O pray you, noble lady, weep no 

more ; 
But let ray words, the words of one so 

small. 
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey. 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do not 

flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of that, 
Who see your tender grace and stateliness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord the 

King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for gone is 

he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot 

there, 
Round that strong castle where he holds 

the Queen ; 
And Modred whom he left in charge of 

all. 
The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's 

grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, and 

realm. 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of 

ours. 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not 

great. 
For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and have done. 
None knows it, and my tears have brought 

me good : 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet this 

grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must 

bear. 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud : 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wickedness, 
But were I such a King, it could not be.' 



Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the 

Queen, 
' Will the child kill me with her innocent 

talk?' 
But openly she answer'd, ' Must not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced his lord, 
Grieve with the common grief of all the 

realm ? ' 

*Yea,' said the maid, 'this is all 

woman's grief. 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years 

ago. 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.' 

Then thought the Queen within herself 

again, 
' Will the child kill me with her foolish 

prate ? ' 
But openly she spake and said to her, 
' O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls. 
What canst thou know of Kings and 

Tables Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the 

signs 
And siniple miracles of thy nunnery ? ' 

To whom the little novice garrulously, 
' Yea, but I know : the land was full of 

signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was knight 
Of the great Table — at the founding of it ; 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and 

he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he heard 
Strange music, and he paused, and turn- 
ing — there. 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 
Each with a beacon-star upon his head, 
And with a wild sea-light about his feet. 
He saw them — headland after headland 

flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west : 



460 



GUINEVERE 



And in the light the white mermaiden 

swam, 
And strong man-breasted things stood 

from the sea, 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 

land, 
To which the little elves of chasm and cleft 
Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. 
So said my father — yea, and furthermore, 
Next morning, while he past the dim -lit 

woods. 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with 

joy 

Come dashing down on a tall wayside 

flower, 
That shook beneath them, as the thistle 

shakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for the 

seed : 
And still at evenings on before his horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of the 

hall; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream' d ; for every 

knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the 

. butts 
While the wine ran : so glad were spirits 

and men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen. ' 

Then spake the Queen and somewhat 

bitterly, 
' Were they so glad ? ill prophets were 

they all. 
Spirits and men : could none of them 

foresee, 
Not even thy wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has fall'n upon the 

realm ? ' 



To whom the novice garrulously again, 
' Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father 

said. 
Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, 
Between the steep cliff and the coming 

wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
tops. 
When round him bent the spirits of the 

hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back like 

flame : 
So said my father — and that night the bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang 

the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd at 

those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois : 
For there was no man knew from whence 

he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long wave 

broke 
All down the thundering shores of Bude 

and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, and 

then 
They found a naked child upon the sands 
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea ; 
And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd 

him 
Till he by miracle was approven King : 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth ; and could 

he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he sang. 
The twain together well might change the 

world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the 

harp, 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would 

have fall'n, 
But that they stay'd him up ; nor would 

he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he fore- 
saw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ?' 



GUINEVERE 



4DI 



Then thought the Queen, ' ' Lo ! they 

have set her on, 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, 
To play upon me,' and bow'd her head 

nor spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd 

hands. 
Shame on her own garrulity garrulously. 
Said the good nuns would check her 

gadding tongue 
Full often, ' and, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales 
Which my good father told me, check 

me too 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, 

one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he 

died, 
Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers 

back, 
And left me ; but of others who remain, 
And of the two first-famed for courtesy — 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, while 

you moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord the 

King ? ' 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answer'd her, 
' Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight. 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these 

two 
Were the most nobly-manner'd men of 

all; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.' 

' Yea,' said the maid, 'be manners such 
fair fruit ? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
sand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumour runs, 
The most disloyal friend in all the world.' 



To v/hich a mournful answer made the 
Queen : 

' O closed about by narrowing nunnery- 
walls, 

What knowest thou of the world, and all 
its lights 

And shadows, all the wealth and all the 
woe ? 

If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight. 

Were for one hour less noble than himself, 

Pray for him that he scape the doom of 
fire, 

And weep for her who drew him to his 
doom.' 

' Yea,' said the little novice, 'I pray for 

both; 
But I should all as soon believe that his, 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen.' 

So she, like many another babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 

where she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who 

cried, 
' Such as thou art be never maiden more 
For ever ! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress.' When that storm of anger 

brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose. 
Whiter as her veil, and stood before the 

Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, 
And when the Queen had added ' Get 

thee hence,' 
Fled frighted. Then that other left alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, 
Saying in herself, ' The simple, fearful 

child 
Meant nothing, but my own too-fearfu'. 

guilt, 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 
But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. 



462 



GUINEVERE 



For what is true repentance but in 

thought — 
Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant 

to us : 
And I have sworn never to see him more, 
To see him more.' 

And ev'n in saying this, 
Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In which she saw him first, when Lancelot 

came, 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest 

man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the 

time 
Was maytime, and as yet no sin was 

dream 'd,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' 

the earth. 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before ; and on again, 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they 

saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 
That crown'd the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. 

But when the Queen immersed in such 

a trance. 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously. 
Came to that point where first she saw 

the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to 

find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought 

him cold. 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not 

like him. 



' Not like my Lancelot ' — while she 

brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts 

again. 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery 

ran. 
Then on a sudden a cry, ' The King.' 

She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when armed 

feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she 

fell. 
And grovell'd with her face against the 

floor : 
There with her milkwhite arms and 

shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from the 

King : 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her ; then caine silence, then a 

voice, 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed, 

the King's : 

' Liest thou here so low, the child of 

one 
I honour'd, happy, dead before thy shame? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword and 

fire. 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws. 
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern 

Sea ; 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right 

arm. 
The mightiest of my knights, abode with 

me. 
Have everywhere about this land of Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence I 

come — from him. 
From waging bitter war with him : and 

he, 
That did not shun to smite me in worse 

way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left 



( 



GUINEVERE 



463 



He spared to lift his hand against the King 
Who made him knight : but many a 

knight was slain ; 
And many more, and all his kith and kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 
And many more when Modred raised 

revolt, 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part. 
True men who love me still, for whom I 

live, 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, 
Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my 

death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my 

doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to 

me, 
That I the King should greatly care to 

live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. 
Bear with me for the last time while I 

show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast 

sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and their law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways 
Were fiU'd with rapine, here and there a 

deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random 

wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm and 

all 
The realms together under me, their 

Head, 
In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of men, 
To serve as model for the mighty world, 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine and 

swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience as 

their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the 

Christ, 



To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it. 
To honour his own word as if his God's,^ 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in man, 
But teach high thought, and amiable 

words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame. 
And love of truth, and all that makes a 

man. 
And all this throve before I wedded thee. 
Believing, ' ' lo mine helpmate, one to feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." 
Then came thy shameful sin with Lance- 
lot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ; 
Then others, following these my mightiest 

knights, 
And drawing foul ensample from fair 

names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did obtain, 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe 

and wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, 
To sit once more within his lonely hall. 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights. 
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, who might be left, could 

speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at 

thee? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from room 

to room. 
And I should evermore be vext with thee 
In hanging robe or vacant ornament, 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love 

thy lord, 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. 



464 



GUINEVERE 



I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public foes 
Who either for his own or children's sake. 
To save his blood from scandal, lets the 

wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule the 

house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for pure, 
She like a new disease, unknown to men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the 

crowd. 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and 

saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the 

young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he that 

reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and aching 

heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of light. 
The mockery of my people, and their 

bane.' 

He paused, and in the pause she crept 

an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting by the doors the warhorse 

neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again : 

' Yet think not that I come to urge thy 

crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head. 
My pride in happier summers, at my feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts on 

that fierce law. 
The doom of treason and the flaming 

death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is 

past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy 

heart with one 



Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past — in 

part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the 

rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 

golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form. 
And beauty such as never woman wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with 

thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine. 
But Lancelot's : nay, they never were the 

King's. 
I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh, 
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and 

mine own flesh, 
Here looking down on thine polluted, cries 
"I loathe thee": yet not less, O Guine- 
vere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee, 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my 

life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. 
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are pure 
We two may meet before high God, and 

thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, 

and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me 

that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now must 

I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet 

blow : 
They summon me their King to lead mine 

hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the west, 
Where I must strike against the man they 

call 
My sister's son — no kin of mine, who 

leagues 
With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, 

and knights. 



GUINEVERE 



465 



Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet 

myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn the 

event ; 
But hither shall I never come again, 
Never lie by thy side ; see thee no more — 
Farewell !' 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her 

neck. 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands that 

blest. 

Then, listening till those armed steps 

were gone. 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish 

found 
The casement : ' peradventure,' so she 

thought, 
' If I might see his face, and not be seen.' 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each a 

light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the 

Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm was 

lower'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon 

clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, 
Which then was as an angel's, but she 

saw. 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the 

lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of 

fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more and 

more 
The moony vapour rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made him 

gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. 



Then she stretch'd out her arms and 

cried aloud 
* Oh Arthur ! ' there her voice brake 

suddenly. 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a 

cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base 
Re -makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance : 

' Gone — my lord ! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not speak. 
Farewell ? I should have answer'd his 

farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord 

the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call him 

mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
And makes me one pollution : he, the 

King, 
Call'd me polluted : shall I kill myself? 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin, 
If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks 

to months, 
The months will add themselves and make 

the years, 
The years will roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the world 
What else? what hope? I think there was 

a hope. 
Except he mock'd me when he spake of 

hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath for- 
given 
My wickedness to him, and left me hope 
That in mine own heart I can live down 

sin 
And be his mate hereafter in the heavens 
Before high God. Ah great and gentle 

lord. 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint 
2 H 



466 



GUINEVERE 



Among his warring senses, to thy 

knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, that 

took 
Full easily all impressions from below. 
Would not look up, or half-despised the 

height 
To which I would not or I could not 

climb — ■ 
I thought I could not breathe in that fine 

air 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I yearn'd for warmth and colour which I 

found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou 

art. 
Thou art the highest and most human 

too. 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there 

none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Battle ? 

none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my 

God, 
What might I not have made of thy fair 

world. 
Had I but loved thy highest creature 

here ? 
It was my duty to have loved the highest : 
It surely was my profit had I known : 
It would have been my pleasure had I 

seen. 
We needs must love the highest when we 

see it. 
Not Lancelot, nor another.' 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd, made her vail her eyes : she 

look'd and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said 

to her, 
' Yea, little maid, for am /not forgiven?' 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping ; and her heart 

was loosed 
Within her, and she wept with these and 

said. 

End of ' The 



' Ye know me then, that wicked one, 
who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King. 

shut me round with narrowing nunnery- 

walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying 
" shame." 

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me 

still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me. 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 

you ; _ 

Wear black and white, and be a nun like 

you. 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 

your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at 

your joys, 
But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites ; 
Pray and be pray'd for ; lie before your 

shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 
To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 
Wlio ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and heal 

mine own ; 
And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous day, 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the 

King.' 

She said : they took her to themselves ; 

and she 
Still hoping, fearing ' is it yet too late ? ' 
Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess 

died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her 

pure life. 
And for the power of ministration in her, 
And likewise for the high rank she had 

borne, 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, 

lived 
For three brief years, and there, an 

Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is 

peace. 
Round Table.'' 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



467 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 
First made and latest left of all the 

knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than 

a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other 

minds. 

LFor on their march to westward, 

Bedivere, 
Who slowly paced among the slumbering 

host, 
Heard in his tent the moanings of the 

King : 

* I found Him in the shining of the stars, 
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His 

fields, 
But in His ways with men I find Him not. 
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. 
O me ! for why is all around us here 
As if some lesser god had made the world. 
But had not force to shape it as he would. 
Till the High God behold it from beyond. 
And enter it, and make it beautiful ? 
Or else as if the world were wholly fair. 
But that these eyes of men are dense and 

dim. 
And have not power to see it as it is : 
Perchance, because we see not to the 

close ; — 
For I, being simple, thought to work His 

will. 
And have but stricken with the sword in 

vain ; 
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend 
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm 
Reels back into the beast, and is no more. 
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my 

death : 
Nay — God my Christ — I pass but shall 

not die.' 

Then, ere that last weird battle in the 
west. 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain 
kill'd 



In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain 

blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear 
Went shrilling, * Hollow, hollow all 

delight ! 
Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass 

away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering 

wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.' 
And fainter onward, like wild birds that 

change 
Their season in the night and wail their 

way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind 

the dream 
Shrill'd ; but in going mingled with dim 

cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills. 
As of some lonely city sack'd by night, 
When all is lost, and wife and child with 

wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and 

call'd, 
' Who spake ? A dream. O light upon 

the wind. 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are these 

dim cries 
Thine ? or doth all that haunts the waste 

and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?' 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and 

spake : 
' O me, my King, let pass whatever will, 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the 

field; 
But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
For ever : but as yet thou shalt not pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in 

death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; 
And care not thou for dreams from him, 

but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west. 



468 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



And with him many of thy people, and 

knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but 

grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and 

thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee for 

the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.' 

Their spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
* Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move, than when we strove 

in youth. 
And brake the petty kings, and fought 

with Rome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman 

wall, 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom 

is mine 
To war against my people and my knights. 
The king who fights his people fights 

himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me once, 

the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death to 

me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 
Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I 

saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath folded in the passes of the world^'A 

Then rose the King and moved his host 

by night. 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by 

league, 
Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples 

dwelt, 
And the long mountains ended in a coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no more. 
And he that fled no further fly the King; 
And there, that day when the great light 

of heaven 



Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, 
On the waste sand by the waste sea they 

closed. 
Nor ever )'et had Arthur fought a fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the 

west. 
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and 

sea : 
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed 

it, drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart was 

cold 
With formless fear ; and ev'n on Arthur 

fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he 

fought. 
For friend and foe were shadows in the 

mist. 
And friend slew friend not knowing whom 

he slew ; 
And some had visions out of golden 

youth. 
And some beheld the faces of old ghosts 
Look in upon the battle ; and in the mist 
Was many a noble deed, many a base. 
And chance and craft and strength in 

single fights. 
And ever and anon with host to host 
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the 

hard mail hewn, 
Shield -breakings, and the clash of brands, 

the crash 
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and 

shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the 

mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor 

knights, 
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blas- 
phemies. 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of 

the lungs 
In that close mist, and cryings for the 

light. 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead, 

Last, as by some one deathbed after 
wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



469 



Or deathlike swoon, thus over ail tliat 

shore, 
Save for some whisper of the seething seas, 
A dead hii^sh fell ; but when the dolorous 

day 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, 

came 
A bitter wind, clear from the North, and 

blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide 
Rose, and the pale King glanced across 

the field 
Of battle : but no man was moving there ; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and up and 

down 
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the 

fallen. 
And shiver'd brands that once had fought 

with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy shores 
The voice of days of old and days to be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day long 
Had held the field of battle was the King : 

' Hearest thou this great voice that 

shakes the world. 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we 

move, 
And beats upon the faces of the dead, 
My dead, as tho' they had not died for 

me ? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am. 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. 
Behold, I seem but King among the dead.' 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : 

' My King, 
King everywhere ! and so the dead have 

kings, 
There also will I worship thee as King. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live 
Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he 

that brought 



The heathen back among us, yonder 

stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine 

house.' 

Then spake the King : ' My house hath 

been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my house 
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roofwith 

me. 
My house are rather they who sware my 

vows. 
Yea, even while they brake them, own'd 

me King. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, 
Whon all the purport of my throne hath 

fail'd. 
That quick or dead thou boldest me for 

King. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou 

see 
Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this the 

King 
Made at the man : then Modred smote 

his liege 
Hard on that helm which many a heathen 

sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one 

blow. 
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. / 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man. 
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord. 
King Arthur. Then, because his wound 

was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land : 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
' The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 



470 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds. 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more ; but, let what will be, 

be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou remem- 

berest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an 

arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king ; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring 

me word.' 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
' It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee 

thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm — 
A little thing may harm a wounded man ; 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee 

word.' 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he 

stept. 
And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 

men. 



Old knights, and over them the sea- wind 

sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 

stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excali- 
bur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 

moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 

ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the 

hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled as he 

stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere : 

' Hast thou perform'd my mission which 
I gave ? 

What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 
heard ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
% I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
' Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy 

name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



471 



Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me 
word.' 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

' And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost for ever from the 

earth, 
Wliich might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done ? 
What harm, undone ? Deep harm to 

disobey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king 

demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumours of a doubt ? But were this 

kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, " King Arthur's sword, Excali- 

bur. 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 
So might some old man speak in the after- 
time 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honour and much fame 

were lost.' 



So spake he, clouded with his own 
conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 
King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 
heavily : 
' What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 
heard ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
' I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, much 

in wrath : 
' Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious 

hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd 

the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The 

great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the 

moon. 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 



472 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. 

So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

And caughthim by the hilt, and brandish'd 
him 

Three times, and drew him under in the 
mere. 

And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 
thicker breath : 

* Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 

* Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 

gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheel- 
ing him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 
mere,' 

And answer made King Arthur, breath- 
ing hard : 

' My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I 
were gone. 

Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 
weight. 

And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 

My wound hath taken cold, and I shall 
die.' 

So saying, from the pavement he half 
rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 



Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words ; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 

\ But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted 

hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 

the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

' Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to 

ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as 

he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like 

a goadj 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, 

as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp - smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were 

ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms, 
Black-stoled, black -hooded, like a dream 

— by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold : and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



473 



Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, * Place me in 

the barge.' 
So to the barge they came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, 

and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining 

loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against a brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face 

was white 
And colourless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the spring- 
ing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 

drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd 

with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in 

rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
' Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead. 



When every morning brought a noble 
chance. 

And every chance brought out a noble 
knight. 

Such times have been not since the light 
that led 

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 

But now the whole Round Table is dis- 
solved 

Which was an image of the mighty world, 

And I, the last, go forth companionless, 

And the days darken round me, and the 
years, 

Among new men, strange faces, other 
minds.' 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the 

barge : 
' The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but 

thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheepor goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of 

God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt) — 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not bail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 



474 



TO THE QUEEN 



Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard 

lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 

wound.' 

So said he, and the barge with oar and 
sail 

Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 
the flood 

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge of 
dawn, 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 

But when that moan had past for ever- 
more. 

The stillness of the dead world's winter 
dawn 

Amazed him, and he groan'd, ' The King 
is gone.' 

And therewithal came on him the weird 
rhyme, 

' From the great deep to the great deep 
he goes.' 

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly 
clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron 
crag; 



Thence mark'd the black hull moving ye^ 

and cried, 
* He passes to be King among the dead. 
And after healing of his grievous wound 
He comes again ; but — if he come no 

more — 
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black 

boat. 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three 

whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with 

living light. 
They stood before his throne in silence, 

friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his 

need ? ' 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there 
came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world, 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, 

and clomb 
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and 

saw. 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare 

the King, 
Down that long water opening on the deep 
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the new 

year. 



TO THE QUEEN 



O LOYAL to the royal in thyself. 

And loyal to thy land, as this to thee 

Bear witness, that rememberable day, 
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the 

Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life 

again 
From halfway down the shadow of the 

grave. 
Past with thee thro' thy people and their 

love. 



And London roll'd one tide of joy thro' 

all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of 

man 
And welcome ! witness, too, the silent cry. 
The prayer of many a race and creed, 

and clime — 
Thunderless lightnings striking under sea 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, 
And that true North, whereof we lately 

heard 



TO THE QUEEN 



475 



A strain to shame us ' keep you to your- 
selves ; 
So loyal is too costly ! friends — your love 
Is but a burthen : loose the bond, and go.' 
Is this the tone of empire ? here the faith 
That made us rulers? this, indeed, her 

voice 
And meaning, whom the roar of Hougou- 

mont 
Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven ? 
What shock has fool'd her since, that she 

should speak 
So feebly? wealthier — wealthier — hour 

by hour ! 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among her 

seas? 
There rang her voice, when the full city 

peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to their 

crown 
Are loyal to their own far sons, who love 
Our ocean -empire with her boundless 

homes 
For ever -broadening England, and her 

throne 
In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, 
That knows not her own greatness : if 

she knows 
And dreads it we are fall'n. But thou, 

my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, 
New -old, and shadowing Sense at war 

with Soul, 
Ideal manhood closed in real man, 
Rather than that gray king, whose name, 

a ghost. 
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from 

mountain peak. 
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still ; 

or him 



Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, 
one 

Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time 

That hover'd between war and wanton- 
ness, 

And crownings and dethronements : take 
withal 

Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 
Heaven 

Will blow the tempest in the distance back 

From thine and ours : for some are scared, 
who mark. 

Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm. 

Waverings of every vane with every wind, 

And wordy trucklings to the transient 
hour, 

And fierce or careless looseners of the 
faith. 

And Softness breeding scorn of simple 
life, 

Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, 

Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice, 

Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n from 
France, 

And that which knows, but careful for 
itself. 

And that which knows not, ruling that 
which knows 

To its own harm : the goal of this great 
world 

Lies beyond sight : yet — if our slowly- 
grown 

And crown'd Republic's crowning com- 
mon-sense. 

That saved her many times, not fail — 
their fears 

Are morning shadows huger than the 
shapes 

That cast them, not those gloomier which 
forego 

The darkness of that battle in the West, 

Where all of high and holy dies away. 



THE LOVER'S TALE 

The original Preface to ' The Lover's Tale ' states that it was composed in my nineteenth year. Two 
only of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection of the poem, I with- 
drew it from the press. One of my friends however who, boylike, admired the boy's work, distri- 
buted among our common associates of that hour some copies of these two parts, without my know- 
ledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contemplation, and marred by the 
many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, 
and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not alloWed to die, may I not be pardoned if I 
suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light — accompanied with a reprint of the sequel — a 
work of my mature life — ' The Golden Supper ' ? 
May, 1879. 

ARGUMENT 
Julian, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, Lionel, 
endeavours to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. He speaks (in Parts 
n. and in.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling for a funeral, and at 
last ringing for a marriage ; but he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the Event, and a 
witness to it completes the tale. 



I 



Here far away, seen from the topmost 

cliff, 
Filling with purple gloom the vacancies 
Between the tufted hills, the sloping seas 
Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way down 

rare sails, 
Wliite as white clouds, floated from sky 

to sky. 
Oh ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet bay. 
Like to a quiet mind in the loud world. 
Where the chafed breakers of the outer 

sea 
Sank powerless, as anger falls aside 
And withers on the breast of peaceful love ; 
Thou didst receive the growth of pines 

that fledged 
The hills that watch'd thee, as Love 

watcheth Love, 
In thine own essence, and delight thyself 
To make it wholly thine on sunny days. 
Keep thou thy name of ' Lover's Bay. ' 

See, sirs, 
Even now the Goddess of the Past, that 

takes 
The heart, and sometimes touches but 

one string 
That quivers, and is silent, and sometimes 
Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd 

chords 
To some old melody, begins to play 



That air which pleased her first. I feel 

thy breath ; 
I come, great Mistress of the ear and eye : 
Thy breath is of the pinewood ; and tho' 

years 
Have hoUow'd out a deep and stormy 

strait 
Betwixt the native land of Love and me, 
Breathe but a little on me, and the sail 
Will draw me to the rising of the sun. 
The lucid chambers of the morning star, 
And East of Life. 

Permit me, friend, I prythee, 
To pass my hand across my brows, and 

muse 
On those dear hills, that never more will 

meet 
The sight that throbs and aches beneath 

my touch. 
As tho' there beat a heart in either eye ; 
For when the outer lights are darken'd 

thus, 
The memory's vision hath a keener edge. 
It grows upon me now — the semicircle 
Of dark-blue waters and the narrow fringe 
Of curving beach — its wreaths of dripping 

green — 
Its pale pink shells — the summerhouse 

aloft 
That open'd on the pines with doors of 

glass. 



476 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



All 



A mountain nest — the pleasure-boat that 

rock'd, 
Light-green with its own shadow, keel to 

keel, 
Upon the dappled dimplings of the wave, 
That blanch'd upon its side. 

O Love, O Hope ! 
They come, they crowd upon me all at 

once — 
Moved from the cloud of unforgotten 

things, 
That sometimes on the horizon of the 

mind 
Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in 

storm — 
Flash upon flash they lighten thro' me — 

days 
Of dewy dawning and the amber eves 
When thou and I, Camilla, thou and I 
Were borne about the bay or safely 

moor'd 
Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where the 

tide 
Plash'd, sapping its worn ribs ; and all 

without 
The slowly-ridging rollers on the cliffs 
Clash'd, calling to each other, and thro' 

the arch 
Down those loud waters, like a setting 

star, 
Mixt with the gorgeous west the light- 
house shone, 
And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell 
Would often loiter in her balmy blue, 
To crown it with herself. 

Here, too, my love 
Waver'd at anchor with me, when day 

hung 
From his mid -dome in Heaven's airy 

halls ; 
Gleams of the water-circles as they broke, 
Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about her 

lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair. 
Leapt like a passing thought across her 

eyes ; 
And mine with one that will not pass, 

till earth 



And heaven pass too, dwelt on my heaven, 

a Aice 
Most starry-fair, but kindled from within 
As 'twere with dawn. She was dark- 

hair'd, dark-eyed : 
Oh, such dark eyes ! a single glance of 

them 
Will govern a whole life from birth to 

death, 
Careless of all things else, led on with light 
In trances and in visions : look at them, 
You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; 
You cannot find their depth ; for they go 

back. 
And farther back, and still withdraw 

themselves , 

Quite into the deep soul, that evermore 
Fresh springing from her fountains in the 

brain. 
Still pouring thro', floods with redundant 

Hfe 
Her narrow portals. 

Trust me, long ago 
I should have died, if it were possible 
To die in gazing on that perfectness 
Which I do bear within me : I had died. 
But from my farthest lapse, my latest ebb. 
Thine image, like a charm of light and 

strength 
Upon the waters, push'd me back again 
On these deserted sands of barren life. 
Tho' from the deep vault where the heart 

of Hope 
Fell into dust, and crumbled in the dark — 
Forgetting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance with quick and health- 
ful blood — 
Thou didst not sway me upward ; could 

I perish 
While thou, a meteor of the sepulchre. 
Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's 

quiet urn 
For ever? He, that saith it, hath o'er- 

stept 
The slippery footing of his narrow wit, 
And fall'n away from judgment. Thou 

art light. 
To which my spirit leaneth all her flowers, 
And length of days, and immortality 



478 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Of thought, and freshness ever self-re- 

new'd. 
For Time and Grief abode too long with 

Life, 
And, like all other friends i' the world, at 

last 
They grew aweary of her fellowship : 
So Time and Grief did beckon unto 

Death, 
And Death drew nigh and beat the doors 

• of Life ; 
But thou didst sit alone in the inner house, 
A wakeful portress, and didst parle with 

Death, — 
' This is a charmed dwelling which I 

hold ' ; 
So Death gave back, and would no 

further come. 
Yet is my life nor in the present time, 
Nor in the present place. To me alone, 
Push'd from his chair of regal heritage, 
The Present is the vassal of the Past : 
So that, in that I have lived, do I live, 
And cannot die, and am, in having been — 
A portion of the pleasant yesterday, 
Thrust forward on to-day and out of 

place ; 
A body journeying onward, sick with 

toil, 
The weight as if of age upon my limbs, 
The grasp of hopeless grief about my 

heart, 
And all the senses weaken'd, save in that. 
Which long ago they had glean'd and 

garner'd up 
Into the granaries of memory — 
The clear brow, bulwark of the precious 

brain, 
Chink'd as you see, and seam'd — and all 

the while 
The light soul twines and mingles with 

the growths 
Of vigorous early days, attracted, won. 
Married, made one with, molten into all 
The beautiful in Past of act or place, 
And like the all-enduring camel, driven 
Far from the diamond fountain by the 

palms, 
Who toils across the middle moonlit 

nights, 



Or when the white heats of the blinding 

noons 
Beat from the concave sand ; yet in him 

keeps 
A draught of that sweet fountain that he 

loves, 
To stay his feet from falling, and his spirit 
From bitterness of death. 



Ye ask me, friends 
When I began to love. How should I 

tell you ? 
Or from the after-fulness of my heart, 
Flow back again unto my slender spring 
And first of love, tho' every turn am 

depth 
Between is clearer in my life than all 
Its present flow. Ye know not what ye 

ask. ^ 

How should the broad and open flower 

tell 
What sort of bud it was, when, prest 

together 
In its green sheath, close-lapt in silken 

folds. 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to itself, 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it 

seem'd ? 
For young Life knows not when young 

Life was born, 
But takes it all for granted : neither Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can re- 
member 
Love in the womb, but resteth satisfied, 
Looking on lier that brought him to the 

light : 
Or as men know not when they fall asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life. 
So know I not when I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that my 

love 
Grew with myself — say rather, was my 

growth. 
My inward sap, the hold I have on earth, 
My outward circling air wherewith I 

breathe. 
Which yet upholds my life, and evermore 
Is to me daily life and daily death : 
For how should I have lived and not 

have loved ? 



\ 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



479 



Can ye take off the sweetness from the 

flower, 
The colour and the sweetness from the 

rose, 
And place them by themselves ; or set 

apart 
Their motions and their brightness from 

the stars. 
And then point out the flower or the star? 
Or build a wall betwixt my life and love, 
And tell me where I am ? 'Tis even 

thus : 
In that I live I love ; because I love 
I live : whate'er is fountain to the one 
Is fountain to the other ; and whene'er 
Our God unknits the riddle of the one, 
There is no shade or fold of mystery 
Swathing the other. 

Many, many years, 
(For they seem many and my most of life. 
And well I could have linger'd in that 

porch. 
So unproportion'd to the dwelling-place, ) 
In the Maydews of childhood, opposite 
The flush and dawn of youth, we lived 

together, 
Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father died, 
And he was happy that he saw it not ; 
But I and the first daisy on his grave 
From the same clay came into light at 

once. 
As Love and I do number equal years, 
So she, my love, is of an age with me. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 
On the same morning, almost the same 

hour. 
Under the selfsame aspect of the stars, 
(Oh falsehood of all starcraft !) we were 

born. 
How like each other was the birth of each ! 
The sister of my mother — she that bore 
Camilla close beneath her beating heart. 
Which to the imprison'd spirit of the child. 
With its true-touched pulses in the flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood, 
Sent notes of preparation manifold, 



And mellow'd echoes of the outer world — 
My mother's sister, mother of my love. 
Who had a twofold claim upon my heart, 
One twofold mightier than the other was, 
In giving so much beauty to the world. 
And so much wealth as God had charged 

her with — 
Loathing to put it from herself for ever, 
Left her own life with it ; and dying thus, 
Crown'd with her highest act the placid 

face 
And breathless body of her good deeds 

past. 

So were we born, so orphan'd. She 
was motherless 
And I without a father. So from each 
Of those two pillars which from earth 

uphold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, and 

all 
The careful burthen of our tender years 
Trembled upon the other. He that gave 
Her life, to me delightedly fulfill'd 
All lovingkindnesses, all ofiices 
Of watchful care and trembling tender- 
ness. 
He waked for both : he pray'd for both : 

he slept 
Dreaming of both : nor was his love the 

less 
Because it was divided, and shot forth 
Boughs on each side, laden with whole- 
some shade, 
Wlierein we nested sleeping or awake. 
And sang aloud the matin -song of life. 

She was my foster-sister : on one arm 
The flaxen ringlets of our infancies 
Wander'd, the while we rested : one soft 

lap 
Pillow'd us both : a common light of eyes 
Was on us as we lay : our baby lips, 
Kissing one bosom, ever drew from thence 
The stream of life, one stream, one life, 

one blood. 
One sustenance, which, still as thought 

grew large. 
Still larger moulding all the house of 

thought. 



480 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Made all our tastes and fancies like, 

perhaps — 
All — all but one ; and strange to me, 

and sweet, 
Sweet thro' strange years to know that 

whatsoe'er 
Our general mother meant for me alone. 
Our mutual mother dealt to both of us : 
So what was earliest mine in earliest life, 
I shared with her in whom myself remains. 
As was our childhood, so our infancy, 
They tell me, was a very miracle 
Of fellow-feeling and communion. 
They tell me that we would not be alone, — 
We cried when we were parted ; when I 

wept, 
Her smile lit up the rainbow on my tears, 
Stay'd on the cloud of sorrow ; that we 

loved 
The sound of one-another's voices more 
Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, and 

learn'd 
To lisp in tune together ; that we slept 
In the same cradle always, face to face. 
Heart beating time to heart, lip pressing 

lip. 
Folding each other, breathing on each 

other. 
Dreaming together (dreaming of each 

other 
They should have added), till the morning 

light 
Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy 

pane 
Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we woke 
To gaze upon each other. If this be 

true. 
At thought of which my whole soul 

languishes 
And faints, and hath no pulse, no breath 

— as tho' 
A man in some still garden should infuse 
Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, 
Till, drunk with its own wine, and over- 
full 
Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself, 
It falls on its own thorns — if this be true — 
And that way my wish leads me evermore 
Still to believe it — 'tis so sweet a thought. 
Why in the utter stillness of the soul 



Doth question'd memory answer not, nor 

tell 
Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn. 
Most loveliest, earthly-heavenliest har- 
mony ? 
O blossom'd portal of the lonely house, 
Green prelude, April promise, glad new- 
year 
Of Being, which with earliest violets 
And lavish carol of clear-throated larks 
Fill'd all the March of life !— I will not 

speak of thee. 
These have not seen thee, these can never 

know thee. 
They cannot understand me. Pass we 

then 
A term of eighteen years. Ye would but 

laugh, 
If I should tell you how I hoard in 

thought 
The faded rhymes and scraps of ancient 

crones. 
Gray relics of the nurseries of the world, 
Which are as gems set in my memory, 
Because she learnt them with me ; or 

what use 
To know her father left us just before 
The daffodil was blown ? or how we 

found 
The dead man cast upon the shore ? All 

this 
Seems to the quiet daylight of your minds 
But cloud and smoke, and in the dark of 

mine 
Is traced with flame. Move with me to 

the event. 
There came a glorious morning, such a 

one 
As dawns but once a season. Mercury 
On such a morning would have flung 

himself 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with 

balanced wings 
To some tall mountain : when I said to 

her, 
' A day for Gods to stoop,' she answered, 

'Ay, 
And men to soar ' : for as that othei 

gazed. 
Shading his eyes till all the fiery cloud, 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



481 



The prophet and the chariot and the 

steeds, 
Suck'd into oneness like a little star 
Were drunk into the inmost blue, we 

stood, 
When first we came from out the pines at 

noon, 
With hands for eaves, uplooking and 

almost 
Waiting to see some blessed shape in 

heaven. 
So bathed we were in brilliance. Never 

yet 
Before or after have I known the spring 
Pour with such sudden deluges of light 
Into the middle summer ; for that day 
Love, rising, shook his wings, and charged 

the winds 
With spiced May-sweets from bound to 

bound, and blew 
Fresh fire into the sun, and from within 
Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent his 

soul 
Into the songs of birds, and touch'd far- 
off 
His mountain -altars, his high hills, with 

flame 
Milder and purer. 



Thro' the rocks we wound : 
The great pine shook with lonely sounds 

of joy 
That came on the sea-wind. As moun- 
tain streams 
Our bloods ran free : the sunshine seem'd 

to brood 
More warmly on the heart than on the 

brow. 
We often paused, and, looking back, we 

saw 
The clefts and openings in the mountains 

fill'd 
With the blue valley and the glistening 

brooks, 
And all the low dark groves, a land of 

love ! 
A land of promise, a land of memory, 
A land of promise flowing with the milk 
And honey of delicious memories ! 
T 



And down to sea, and far as eye could 

ken. 
Each way from verge to verge a Holy 

Land, 
Still growing holier as you near'd the 

bay, 
For there the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 
The grassy platform on some hill, I 

stoop'd, 
I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her 

brows 
And mine made garlands of the selfsame 

flower, 
Which she took smiling, and with my 

work thus 
Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or 

twice she told me 
(For I remember all things) to let grow 
The flowers that run poison in their veins. 
She said, ' The evil flourish in the world.' 
Then playfully she gave herself the lie — 
' Nothing in nature is unbeautiful ; 
So, brother, pluck and spare not.' So 

I wove 
Ev'n the dull-blooded poppy-stem, 'whose 

flower, 
Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sunrise, 
Like to the wild youth of an evil prince. 
Is without sweetness, but who crowns 

himself 
Above the naked poisons of his heart 
In his old age.' A graceful thought of 

hers 
Grav'n on my fancy ! And oh, how like 

a nymph, 
A stately mountain nymph she look'd ! 

how native 
Unto the hills she trod on ! Wl:iile I 

gazed 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between us both ; tho' while I 

gazed 
My spirit leap'd as with those thrills of 

bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, and 

show us 
That we are surely heard. Methought a 

light 

2 I 



482 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Burst from the garland I had wov'n, and 

stood 
A solid glory on her bright black hair ; 
A light methought broke from her dark, 

dark eyes, 
And shot itself into the singing winds ; 
A mystic light flash'd ev'n from her white 

robe 
As from a glass in the sun, and fell about 
My footsteps on the mountains. 

Last we came 
To what our people call ' The Hill of 

Woe.' 
A bridge is there, that, look'd at from 

beneath 
Seems but a cobweb filament to link 
The yawning of an earthquake - cloven 

chasm. 
And thence one night, when all the winds 

were loud, 
A woful man (for so the story went) 
Had thrust his wife and child and dash'd 

himself 
Into the dizzy depth below. Below, 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, a 

stream 
Flies with a shatter'd foam along the 

chasm. 
The path was perilous, loosely strown 

with crags : 
We mounted slowly ; yet to both there 

came 
The joy of life in steepness overcome, 
And victories of ascent, and looking down 
On all that had look'd down on us ; and 

joy 
In breathing nearer heaven ; and joy to 

me, 
High over all the azure-circled earth, 
To breathe with her as if in heaven itself ; 
And more than joy that I to her became 
Her guardian and her angel, raising her 
Still higher, past all peril, until she saw 
Beneath her feet the region far away. 
Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky 

brows. 
Arise in open prospect — heath and hill, 
And hollow lined and wooded to the lips, 
And steep-down walls of battlemented rock 



Gilded with broom, or shatter'd into 
spires, 

And glory of broad waters interfused, 

Whence rose as it were breath and steam 
of gold. 

And over all the great wood rioting 

And climbing, streak'd or starr'd at 
intervals 

With falling brook or blossom'd bush — 
and last. 

Framing the mighty landscape to the west, 

A purple range of mountain - cones, be- 
tween 

Wliose interspaces gush'd in blinding 
bursts 

The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. 

At length 
Descending from the point and standing 

both. 
There on the tremulous bridge, that from 

beneath 
Had seem'd a gossamer filament up in air. 
We paused amid the splendour. All the 

west 
And ev'n unto the middle south was 

ribb'd 
And barr'd with bloom on bloom. The 

sun below. 
Held for a space 'twixt cloud and wave, 

shower'd down 
Rays of a mighty circle, weaving over 
That various wilderness a tissue of light 
Unparallel'd. On the other side, the 

moon. 
Half-melted into thin blue air, stood still. 
And pale and fibrous as a wither'd leaf. 
Nor yet endured in presence of His eyes 
To indue his lustre ; most unloverlike. 
Since in his absence full of light and joy. 
And giving light to others. But this 

most, 
Next to her presence whom I loved so 

well. 
Spoke loudly even into my inmost heart 
As to my outward hearing : the loud 

stream, 
Forth issuing from his portals in the crag 
(A visible link unto the home of my 

heart), 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



483 



Ran amber toward the west, and nigh 

the sea 
Parting my own loved mountains was 

received, 
Shorn of its strength, into the sympathy 
Of that small bay, which out to open 

main 
Glow'd intermingling close beneath the 

sun. 
Spirit of Love ! that little hour was bound 
Shut in from Time, and dedicate to 

thee : 
Thy fires from heaven had touch'd it, 

and the earth 
They fell on became hallow'd evermore. 

We turn'd : our eyes met : hers were 

bright, and mine 
Were dim with floating tears, that shot 

the sunset 
In lightnings round me ; and my name 

was borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my name 

has been 
A hallow'd memory like the names of old, 
A center'd, glory-circled memory. 
And a peculiar treasure, brooking not 
Exchange or currency : and in that hour 
A hope flow'd round me, like a golden 

mist 
Charm'd amid eddies of melodious airs, 
A moment, ere the onward whirlwind 

shatter it, 
Waver'd and floated — which was less 

than Hope, 
Because it lack'd the power of perfect 

Hope ; 
But which was more and higher than all 

Hope, 
Because all other Hope had lower aim ; 
Even that this name to which her gracious 

lips 
Did lend such gentle utterance, this one 

name. 
In some obscure hereafter, might in- 

wreathe 
(How lovelier, nobler then !) her life, her 

love. 
With my life, love, soul, spirit, and heart 

and strength. 



' Brother,' she said, ' let this be call'd 

henceforth 
The Hill of Hope ' ; and I replied, < O 

sister. 
My will is one with thine ; the Hill of 

Hope.' 
Nevertheless, we did not change the name. 

I did not speak : I could not speak my 
love. 
Love lieth deep : Love dwells not in lip- 
depths. 
Love wraps his wings on either side the 

heart. 
Constraining it with kisses close and warm. 
Absorbing all the intense of sweet thoughts 
So that they pass not to the shrine of 

sound. 
Else had the life of that delighted hour 
Drunk in the largeness of the utterance 
Of Love ; but how should Earthly mea- 
sure mete 
The Heavenly -unmeasured or unlimited 

Love, 
Who scarce can tune his high majestic 

sense 
Unto the thundersong that wheels the 

spheres, 
Scarce living in the yEolian harmony. 
And flowing odour of the spacious air, 
Scarce housed within the circle of this 

Earth, 
Be cabin'd up in words and syllables, 
Which pass with that which breathes 

them? Sooner Earth 
Might go round Heaven, and the strait 

girth of Time 
Inswathe the fulness of Eternity, 
Than language grasp the infinite of Love. 

O day which did enwomb that happy 

hour. 
Thou art blessed in the years, divinest day ! 
O Genius of that hour which dost uphold 
Thy coronal of glory like a God, 
Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, 
Who walk before thee, ever turning round 
To gaze upon thee till their eyes are dim 
With dwelUng on the light and depth of 

thine. 



484 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Thy name is ever worshipp'd among 

hours ! 
Had I died then, I had not seem'd to die, 
For bliss stood round me Hke the Hght of 

Heaven,— 
Had I died then, I had not known the 

death ; 
Yea had the Power from whose right 

hand the light 
Of Life issueth, and from whose left hand 

floweth 
The Shadow of Death, perennial efilu- 

ences. 
Whereof to all that draw the wholesome 

air, 
Somewhile the one 'must overflow the 

other ; 
Then had he stemm'd my day with night, 

and driven 
My current to the fountain whence it 

sprang,— 
Even his own abiding excellence — 
On me, methinks, that shock of gloom 

had fall'n 
Unfelt, and in this glory I had merged 
The other, like the sun I gazed upon, 
Which seeming for the moment due to 

death. 
And dipping his head low beneath the 

verge, 
Yet bearing round about him his own day, 
In confidence of unabated strength, 
Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, from 

light to light. 
And holdeth his undimmed forehead far 
Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the downward 

hill; 
We past from light to dark. On the 

other side 
Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain hall. 
Which none have fathom'd. If you go 

far in 
(The country people rumour) you may 

hear 
The moaning of the woman and the child, 
Shut in the secret chambers of the rock, 
I too have heard a sound — perchance of 

streams 



Running far on within its inmost halls. 
The home of darkness ; but the cavern- 
mouth, 
Half overtraded with a wanton weed, 
Gives birth to a brawling brook, that 

passing lightly 
Adown a natural stair of tangled roots, 
Is presently received in a sweet grave 
Of eglantines, a place of burial 
Far lovelier than its cradle ; for unseen, 
But taken with the sweetness of the place. 
It makes a constant bubbling melody 
That drowns the nearer echoes. Lower 

down 
Spreads out a little lake, that, flooding, 

leaves 
Low banks of yellow sand ; and from the 

woods 
That belt it rise three dark, tall cy- 
presses, — 
Three cypresses, symbols of moital woe, 
That men plant over graves. 

Hither we came, 
And sitting down upon the golden moss, 
Held converse sweet and low — low con- 
verse sweet, 
In which our voices bore least part. The 

wind 
Told a lovetale beside us, how he woo'd 
The waters, and the waters answering 

Hsp'd 
To kisses of the wind, that, sick with love. 
Fainted at intervals, and grew again 
To utterance of passion. Ye cannot 

shape 
Fancy so fair as is this memory. 
Methought all excellence that ever was 
Had drawn herself from many thousand 

years. 
And all the separate Edens of this earth, 
To centre in this place and time. I 

listen'd. 
And her words stole with most prevailing 

sweetness 
Into my heart, as thronging fancies come 
To boys and girls when summer days are 

new. 
And soul and heart and body are all at 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



48s 



What marvel my Camilla told me all ? 
i It was so happy an hour, so sweet a place, 
And I was as the brother of her blood, 
And by that name I moved upon her 

breath ; 
Dear name, which had too much of near- 
ness in it 
And heralded the distance of this time ! 
At first her voice was very sweet and low. 
As if she were afraid of utterance ; 
But in the onward current of her speech, 
(As echoes of the hollow-banked brooks 
Are fashion'd by the channel which they 

keep), 
Her words did of their meaning borrow 

sound. 
Her cheek did catch the colour of her 

v/ords. 
I heard and trembled, yet I could but 

hear ; 
i My heart paused — my raised eyelids 

would not fall. 
But still I kept my eyes upon the sky. 
I seem'd the only part of Time stood still, 
And saw the motion of all other things ; 
While her words, syllable by syllable, 
Like water, drop by drop, upon my ear 
Fell ; and I wish'd, yet wish'd her not 

to speak ; 
But she spake on, for I did name no wish, 
I What marvel my Camilla told me all 
' Her maiden dignities of Hope and Love — 
' Perchance,' she said, ' return'd.' Even 

then the stars 
' Did tremble in their stations as I gazed ; 
j But she spake on, for I did name no wish, 
No wish — no hope. Hope was not wholly 

dead, 
But breathing hard at the approach of 

Death, — 
Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine 
No longer in the dearest sense of mine — 
For all the secret of her inmost heart. 
And all the maiden empire of her mind, 
Lay like a map before me, and I saw 
There, where I hoped myself to reign as 

king, 
There, where that day I crown'd myself 

as king. 
There in my realm and even on my throne. 



Another ! then it seem'd as tho' a link 
Of some tight chain within my inmost 

frame 
Was riven in twain : that life I heeded not 
Flow'd from me, and the darkness of the 

grave. 
The darkness of the grave and utter night, 
Did swallow up my vision ; at her feet, 
Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, 
Smit with exceeding sorrow unto Death. 

Then had the earth beneath me yawn- 
ing cloven 
With such a sound as when an iceberg 

splits 
From cope to base — had Heaven from 

all her doors. 
With all her golden thresholds clashing, 

roll'd 
Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as 

dead, 
Mute, blind and motionless as then I lay ; 
Dead, for henceforth there was no life 

for me ! 
Mute, for henceforth what use were 

words to me ! 
Blind, for the day was as the night to 

me ! 
The night to me was kinder than the 

day ; 
The night in pity took away my day, 
Because my grief as yet was newly born 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the light ; 
And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the tender 

love 
Of him she brooded over. Would I had 

lain 
Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound 
Round my worn limbs, and the wild brier 

had driven 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpaining 

brows. 
Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 
The wind had blown above me, and the 

rain 
Had fall'n upon me, and the gilded snake 
Had nestled in this bosom -throne of 

Love, 
But I had been at rest for evermore. 



486 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Long time entrancement held me. All 

too soon 
Life (like a wanton too-officious friend, 
Who will not hear denial, vain and rude 
With profter of unwish'd-for services) 
Entering all the avenues of sense 
Past thro' into his citadel, the brain. 
With hated warmth of apprehensiveness. 
And first the chillness of the sprinkled 

brook 
Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd 

to hear 
Its murmur, as the drowning seaman 

hears. 
Who with his head below the surface 

dropt 
Listens the muffled booming indistinct 
Of the confused floods, and dimly knows 
His head shall rise no more : and then 

came in 
The white light of the weary moon 

above, 
Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. 
Was my sight drunk that it did shape to 

me 
Him who should own that name ? Were 

it not well 
If so be that the echo of that name 
Ringing within the fancy had updrawn 
A fashion and a phantasm of the form 
It should attach to ? Phantom ! — had 

the ghastliest 
That ever lusted for a body, sucking 
The foul steam of the grave to thicken 

by it, 
There in the shuddering moonlight 

brought its face 
And what it has for eyes as close to 

mine 
As he did — better that than his, than he 
The friend, the neighbour, Lionel, the 

beloved. 
The loved, the lover, the happy Lionel, 
The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, 
All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. 
O how her choice did leap forth from his 

eyes ! 
O how her love did clothe itself in smiles 
About his lips ! and — not one moment's 

grace — 



Then when the effect weigh'd seas upon 

my head 
To come my way ! to twit me with the 



Was not the land as free thro' all her 

ways 
To him as me ? Was not his wont to 

walk 
Between the going light and growing 

night ? 
Had I not learnt my loss before became? 
Could that be more because he came my 

way? 
Why should he not come my way if he 

would ? 
And yet to-night, to-night — when all my 

wealth 
Flash'd from me in a moment and I fell 
Beggar'd for ever — why should he come 

my way 
Robed in those robes of light I must not 

wear. 
With that great crown of beams about his 

brows — 
Come like an angel to a damned soul, 
To tell him of the bliss he had with 

God- 
Come like a careless and a greedy heir 
That scarce can wait the reading of the 

will 
Before he takes possession ? Was mine 

a mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret, unapproached woe. 
Unspeakable ? I was shut up with 

Grief; 
She took the body of my past delight, 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it for 

herself, 
And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice ; 
I was the High Priest in her holiest 

place, 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy as 
these well-nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain : but he 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



487 



Bent c/er me, and my neck his arm up- 

stay'd. 
I thought it was an adder's fold, and once 
I strove to disengage niA'self, but fail'd, 
Being so feeble : she bent above me, too ; 
Wan was her cheek ; for whatsoe'er of 

blight 
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had made 
i The red rose there a pale one — and her 

eyes — 
I saw the moonlight glitter on their 

tears — 
And some few drops of that distressful 
' rain 

Fell on my face, and her long ringlets 

moved. 
Drooping and beaten by the breeze, and 

brush' d 
My fallen forehead in their to and fro. 
For in the sudden anguish of her heart 
Loosed from their simple thrall they had 

flow'd abroad, 
And floated on and parted round her neck. 
Mantling her form halfway. She, when 

I woke, 
Something she ask'd, I know not what, 

and ask'd, 
Unanswer'd, since I spake not ; for the 

sound 
Of that dear voice so musically low, 
And now first heard with any sense of 

pain, 
As it had taken life away before. 
Choked all the syllables, that strove to 

rise 
From my full heart. 

The blissful lover, too. 
From his great hoard of happiness dis- 

till'd 
Some drops of solace ; like a vain rich 

man, 
That, having always prosper'd in the 

world. 
Folding his hands, deals comfortable 

words 
To hearts wounded for ever ; yet, in 

truth. 
Fair speech was his and delicate of 

phrase. 



Falling in whispers on the sense, ad- 

dress'd 
More to the inward than the outward 

ear. 
As rain of the midsummer midnight soft, 
Scarce-heard, recalling fragrance and the 

green 
Of the dead spring : but mine w^as wholly 

dead. 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit for 

me. 
Yet who had done, or who had suffer'd 

wrong ? 
And why was I to darken their pure love, 
If, as 1 found, they two did love each 

other. 
Because my own was darken'd ? Why 

was I 
To cross between their happy star and 

them ? 
To stand a shadow by their shining doors, 
And vex them with my darkness ? Did 

I love her ? 
Ye know that I did love her ; to this 

present 
My full-orb'd love has waned not. Did 

I love her. 
And could I look upon her tearful eyes? 
What had she done to weep ? Why 

should she weep ? 

innocent of spirit — let my heart 
Break rather — whom the gentlest airs of 

Heaven 
Should kiss with an unwonted gentleness. 
Her love did murder mine? What then? 

She deem'd 

1 wore a brother's mind : she call'd me 

brother : 
She told me all her love : she shall not 
weep. 

The brightness of a burning thought, 
awhile 
In battle with the glooms of my dark will, 
Moonlike emerged, and to itself lit up 
There on the depth of an unfathom'd woe 
Reflex of action. Starting up at once. 
As from a dismal dream of my own death, 
I, for I loved her, lost my love in Love ; 
I, for I loved her, grasptthe hand shelov'd, 



488 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



And laid it in her own, and sent my cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who loving 

made 
The happy and the unhappy love, that He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over them, 
Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, his 

bride ! 
Let them so love that men and boys may 

say, 
' Lo ! how they love each other ! ' till 

their love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in 

the land — 
One golden dream of love, from which 

may death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a life 
More living to some happier happiness, 
Swallowing its precedent in victory. 
And as for me, Camilla, as for me, — 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome dew, 
They will but sicken the sick plant the 

more. 
Deem that I love thee but as brothers do, 
So shalt thou love me still as sisters do ; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, dream 

but how 
I could have loved thee, had there been 

none else 
To love as lovers, loved again by thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like to this, I 

spake, 
When I beheld her weep so ruefully ; 
For sure my love should ne'er indue the 

front 
And mask of Hate, who lives on others' 

moans. 
Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bitter 

draughts, 
And batten on her poisons? Love forbid ! 
Love passeth not the threshold of cold 

Hate, 
And Hate is strange beneath the roof of 

Love. 
O Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up these 

tears 
Shed for the love of Love ; for tho' mine 

image, 
The subject of thy power, be cold in her. 



Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the 

source 
Of these sad tears, and feeds their down- 
ward flow. 
So Love, arraign'd to judgment and to 

death. 
Received unto himself a part of blame, 
Being guiltless, as an innocent prisoner. 
Who, when the woful sentence hath been 

past. 
And all the clearness of his fame hath gone 
Beneath the shadow of the curse of man, 
Plrst falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom 

awaked, 
And looking round upon his tearful friends, 
Forthwith and in his agony conceives 
A shameful sense as of a cleaving crime — 
For whence without some guilt should 
such grief be ? 

So died that hour, and fell into the 

abysm 
Of forms outworn, but not to me outworn. 
Who never hail'd another — was there 

one ? 
There might be one — one other, worth 

the life 
That made it sensible. So that hour died 
Like odour rapt into the winged wind 
Borne into alien lands and far away. 

There be some hearts so airily built, 

that they. 
They — when their love is wreck'd — if 

Love can wreck — 
On that sharp ridge of utmost doom ride 

highly 
Above the perilous seas of Change and 

Chance ; 
Nay, more, hold out the lights of cheer- 
fulness ; 
As the tall ship, that many a dreary year 
Knit to some dismal sandbank far at sea, 
All thro' the livelong hours of utter dark, 
Showers slanting light upon the dolorous 

wave. 
For me- — what light, what gleam on those 

black ways 
Wliere Love could walk with banish'd 

Hope no more ? 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



489 



It was ill-done to part you, Sisters fair ; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about the 

neck of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew 

in her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her 

whisper'd tales. 
They said that Love would die when 

Hope was gone. 
And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd 

after Hope ; 
At last she sought out Memory, and they 

trod 
The same old paths where Love had 

walk'd with Hope, 
And Memory fed the soul of Love with 

tears. 



II 



From that time forth I would not see 

her more ; 
But many weary moons I lived alone — 
Alone, and in the heart of the great forest. 
Sometimes upon the hills beside the sea 
All day I watch'd the floating isles of shade. 
And sometimes on the shore, upon the 

sands 
Insensibly I drew her name, until 
The meaning of the letters shot into 
My brain ; anon the wanton billow wash'd 
Them over, till they faded like my love. 
The hollow caverns heard me — the black 

brooks 
Of the midforest heard me — the soft 

winds. 
Laden with thistledown and seeds of 

flowers, 
Paused in their course to hear me, for my 

voice 
Was all of thee : the merry linnet knew 

me. 
The squirrel knew me, and the dragonfly 
Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. 
The rough brier tore my bleeding palms ; 

the hemlock. 
Brow-high, did strike my forehead as I 

past ; 
Vet trod I not the v/ildflower in my path, 
Nor bruised the wildbird's egg. 



Was this the end ? 
Why grew we then together in one plot ? 
Why fed we from one fountain ? drew 

one sun ? 
WHiy were our mothers' branches of one 

stem ? 
Why were we one in all things, save in 

that 
Where to have been one had been the 

cope and crown 
Of all I hoped and fear'd ? — if that same 

nearness 
Were father to this distance, and that 

one 
Vauntcourier to this double ? if Affection 
Living slew Love, and Sympathy hew'd 

out 
The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? 

Chiefly I sought the cavern and the hill 

Where last we roam'd together, for the 
sound 

Of the loud stream was pleasant, and the 
wind 

Came wooingly with woodbine smells. 
Sometimes 

All day I sat within the cavern -mouth, 

Fixing my eyes on those three cypress- 
cones 

That spired above the wood ; and with 
mad hand 

Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- 
screen, 

I cast them in the noisy brook beneath. 

And watch'd them till they vanish'd from 
my sight 

Beneath the bower of wreathed eglan- 
tines : 

And all the fragments of the living rock 

(Huge blocks, which some old trembling 
of the world 

Had loosen'd from the mountain, till they 
fell 

Half-digging their own graves) these in 
my agony 

Did I make bare of all the golden moss. 

Wherewith the dashing runnel in the 
spring 

Had liveried them all over. In my 
brain 



490 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



The spirit seem'd to flag from thought to 

thought, 
As moonlight wandering thro' a mist : my 

blood 
Crept like marsli drains thro' all my lan- 
guid limbs ; 
The motions of my heart seem'd far 

within me, 
Unfrequent, low, as tho' it told its pulses ; 
And yet it shook me, that my frame 

would shudder, 
As if 'twere drawn asunder by the rack. 
But over the deep graves of Hope and 

Fear, 
And all the broken palaces of the Past, 
Brooded one master-passion evermore. 
Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky 
Above some fair metropolis, earth- 

shock'd, — 
Hung round with ragged rims and burn- 
ing folds, — 
Embathing all with wild and woful hues, 
Great hills of ruins, and collapsed masses 
Of thundershaken columns indistinct. 
And fused together in the tyrannous 

light- 
Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was no 

more. 
Some one had told me she was dead, 

and ask'd 
If I would see her burial : then I seem'd 
To rise, and through the forest-shadow 

borne 
With more than mortal swiftness, I ran 

down 
The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon 
The rear of a procession, curving round 
The silver-sheeted bay : in front of which 
Six stately virgins, all in white, upbare 
A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest 

lawn. 
Wreathed round the bier with garlands : 

in the distance. 
From out the yellow woods upon the 

hill 
Look'd forth the summit and the pin- 
nacles 
Of a gray steeple— thence at intervals 



A low bell tolling. All the pageantry, 
Save those six virgins which upheld the 

bier. 
Were stoled from head to foot in flowing 

black ; 
One walk'd abreast with me, and veil'd 

his brow. 
And he was loud in weeping and in praise 
Of her, we follow'd : a strong sympathy 
Shook all my soul : I flung myself upon 

him 
In tears and cries : I told him all my love. 
How I had loved her from the first ; 

whereat 
He shrank and howl'd, and from his brow 

drew back 
His hand to push me from him ; and the 

face. 
The very face and form of Lionel 
Flash'd thro' my eyes into my innermost 

brain. 
And at his feet I seem'd to faint and fall. 
To fall and die away. I could not rise 
Albeit I strove to follow. They past on. 
The lordly Phantasms ! in their floating 

folds 
They past and were no more : but I had 

fallen 
Prone by the dashing runnel on the grass. 

Alway the inaudible invisible thought, 
Artificer and subject, lord and slave, 
Shaped by the audible and visible, 
Moulded the audible and visible ; 
All crisped sounds of wave and leaf and 

wind, 
Flatter'd the fancy of my fading brain ; 
The cloud-pavilion'd element, the wood. 
The mountain, the three cypresses, the 

cave. 
Storm, sunset, glows and glories of the 

moon 
Below black firs, when silent - creeping 

winds 
Laid the long night in silver streaks and 

bars. 
Were wrought into the tissue of my 

dream : 
The moanings in the forest, the loud 

brook, 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



491 



Cries of the partridge like a rusty key 
Turn'd in a lock, owl -whoop and dor- 
hawk-whirr 
Awoke me not, but were a part of sleep, 
And voices in the distance calling to me 
And in my vision bidding me dream on, 
Like sounds without the twilight realm 

of dreams. 
Which wander round the bases of the 

hills. 
And murmur at the low-dropt eaves of 

sleep. 
Half-entering the portals. Oftentimes 
The vision had fair prelude, in the end 
Opening on darkness, stately vestibules 
To caves and shows of Death : whether 

the mind. 
With some revenge — even to itself un- 
known, — 
Made strange division of its suffering 
With her, whom to have suffering view'd 

had been 
Extremest pain ; or that the clear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being blunted in the Present, grew at 

length 
Prophetical and prescient of whate'er 
The Future had in store : or that which 

most 
Enchains belief, the sorrow of my spirit 
Was of so wide a compass it took in 
All I had loved, and my dull agony, 
Ideally to her transferr'd, became 
Anguish intolerable. 

The day waned ; 

Alone I sat with her : about my brow 

Her warm breath floated in the utterance 

Of silver - chorded tones : her lips were 
sunder'd 

With smiles of tranquil bliss, which broke 
in light 

Like morning from her eyes — her elo- 
quent eyes, 

(As I have seen them many a hundred 
times) 

Fill'd all with pure clear fire, thro' mine 
down rain'd 

Their spirit-searching splendours. As a 



Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-stay'd 
In damp and dismal dungeons under- 
ground, 
Confined on points of faith, when strength 

is shock'd 
With torment, and expectancy of worse 
Upon the morrow, thro' the ragged walls, 
All unawares before his half-shut eyes, 
Comes in upon him in the dead of night. 
And with the excess of sweetness and of 

awe, 
Makes the heart tremble, and the sight 

run over 
Upon his steely gyves ; so those fair eyes 
Shone on my darkness, forms which ever 

stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory. 
Invisible but deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to reassume 
The semblance of those rare realities 
Of which they were the mirrors. Now 

the light 
Which was their life, burst through the 

cloud of thought 
Keen, irrepressible. 

It was a room 
Within the summer-house of which I spake, 
Hung round with paintings of the sea, 

and one 
A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved prow 
Clambering, the mast bent and the ravin 

wind 
rn her sail roaring. From the outer day. 
Betwixt the close-set ivies came a broad 
And solid beam of isolated light. 
Crowded with driving atomies, and fell 
Slanting upon that picture, from prime 

youth 
Well-known well -loved. She drew it 

long ago 
Forthgazing on the waste and open sea, 
One morning when the upblown billow 

ran 
Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I had 

pour'd 
Into the shadowing pencil's naked forms 
Colour and life : it was a bond and seal 
Of friendship, spoken of with tearful 

smiles ; 



492 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



A monument of childhood and of love ; 
The poesy of childhood ; my lost love 
Symbol'd in storm. We gazed on it 

together 
In mute and glad remembrance, and 

each heart 
Grew closer to the other, and the eye 
Was riveted and charm -bound, gazing 

like 
The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- 

couch'd — 
A beauty w^hich is death ; when all at 

once 
That painted vessel, as with inner life, 
Began to heave upon that painted sea ; 
An earthquake, my loud heart -beats, 

made the ground 
Reel under us, and all at once, soul, life 
And breath and motion, past and flow'd 

away 
To those unreal billows : round and 

round 
A whirlwind caught and bore us ; mighty 

gyres 
Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- 
driven 
Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she 

shriek'd ; 
My heart was cloven with pain ; I wound 

my arms 
About her : we whirl'd giddily ; the wind 
Sung ; but I clasp'd her without fear : 

her weight 
Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim 

eyes. 
And parted lips which drank her breath, 

down-hung 
The jaws of Death : I, groaning, from 

me flung 
Her empty phantom : all the sway and 

whirl 
Of the storm dropt to windless calm^ and I 
Down welter'd thro' the dark ever and 

ever. 

Ill 

I CAME one day and sat among the 

stones 
Strewn in the entry of the moaning 

cave : 



A morning air, sweet after rain, ran 

over 
The rippling levels of the lake, and 

blew 
Coolness and moisture and all smells of 

bud 
And foliage from the dark and dripping 

woods \ 

Upon my fever'd brows that shook and ' 
throbb'd ] 

From temple unto temple. To what 

height 
The day had grown I know not. Then 

came on me 
The hollow tolling of the bell, and all 
The vision of the bier. As heretofore 
I walk'd behind with one who veil'd his 

brow. 
Methought by slow degrees the sullen 

bell 
Toll'd quicker, and the breakers on the 

shore 
Sloped into louder surf: those that went 

with me, 
And those that held the bier before my 

face, 
Moved with one spirit round about the 

bay. 
Trod swifter steps ; and while I walk'd 

with these 
In marvel at that gradual change, I 

thought 
Four bells instead of one began to ring, 
Four merry bells, four merry marriage- 
bells, 
In clanging cadence jangling peal on 

peal — 
A long loud clash of rapid marriage- 
bells. 
Then those who led the van, and those 

in rear, 
Rush'd into dance, and like vi^ild Bac- 
chanals 
Fled onward to the steeple in the 

woods : 
I, too, was borne along and felt the 

blast 
Beat on my heated eyelids : all at once 
The front rank made a sudden halt ; the 
bells 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER 



493 



I Lapsed into frightful stillness ; the surge 

fell 
From thunder into whispers ; those six 

maids 
With shrieks and ringing laughter on the 

sand 
Threw down the bier ; the woods upon 

the hill 
Waved with a sudden gust that sweeping 

down 
Took the edges of the pall, and blew it 

far 
Until it hung, a little silver cloud 
Over the sounding seas : I turn'd : my 

heart 
Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the 

hand, 
Waiting to see the settled countenance 
Of her I loved, adorn'd with fading 

flowers. 
But she from out her death-like chrysalis, 
She from her bier, as into fresher life, 
My sister, and my cousin, and my 

love. 
Leapt lightly clad in bridal white — her 

hair 
Studded with one rich Provence rose — a 

light 
Of smiling welcome round her lips — her 

eyes 
And cheeks as bright as when she climb'd 

the hill. 
One hand she reach'd to those that came 

behind, 
And while I mused nor yet endured to 

take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood with 

me 
Stept gaily forward, throwing down his 

robes. 
And claspt her hand in his : again the 

bells 
Jangled and clang'd : again the stormy 

surf 
Crash'd in the shingle : and the whirling 

rout 
Led by those two rush'd into dance, and 

fled 
Wind - footed to the steeple in the 

woods. 



Till they were swallow'd in the leafy 

bowers, 
And I stood sole beside the vacant bier. 

There, there, my latest vision — then the 
event ! 



IV 

THE GOLDEN SUPPER ^ 

{Another speaks) 

He flies the event : he leaves the event 

to me : 
Poor JuHan — how he rush'd away ; the 

bells. 
Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and 

heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you saw. 
As who should say ' Continue. ' Well 

he had 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I say ? 
Solace at least — before he left his home. 

Would you had seen him in that hour 

of his ! 
He moved thro' all of it majestically — 
Restrain'd himself quite to the close — 

but now — 

Whether they were his lady's marriage- 
bells, 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never ask'd : but Lionel and the girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came 

again 
Back to his mother's house among the 

pines. 
But these, their gloom, the mountains and 

the Bay, 
The whole land weigh'd him down as 

iEtna does 
The Giant of Mythology : he would go, 
Would leave the land for ever, and had 

gone 
Surely, but for a whisper, * Go not yet,' 
Some warning — sent divinely — as it 

seem'd 

1 This poem is founded upon a story in Boc- 
caccio. See Introduction, p. 476. 



494 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



By that which follow'd — but of this I 

deem 
As of the visions that he told — the event 
Glanced back upon them in his after 

life, 
And partly made them — tho' he knew it 

not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not look 

at her — 
No not for months : but, when the 

eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, and 

said. 
Would you could toll me out of life, but 

found — 
All softly as his mother broke it to him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear, 
For that low knell tolling his lady dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days without 

a pulse : 
All that look'd on her had pronounced 

her dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's land 
They never nail a dumb head up in 

elm), 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of 

heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own kin. 

What did he then ? not die : he is here 
and hale — 

Not plunge headforemost from the moun- 
tain there. 

And leave the name of Lover's Leap : 
not he : 

He knew the meaning of the whisper now, 

Thought that he knew it. ' This, I stay'd 
for this ; 

love, I have not seen you for so long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the grave, 

1 will be all alone with all I love. 

And kiss her on the lips. She is his no 

more : 
The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead.' 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the dim 
vault. 



And, making there a sudden light, beheld 
All round about him that which all will 

be. 
The light was but a flash, and went again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her face ; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which the 

moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of her 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of the 

vault. 

' It was my wish,' he said, ' to pass, to 

sleep, J 

To rest, to be with her — till the great I 

day ^ 

Peal'd on us with that music which rights 

all. 
And raised us hand in hand.' And 

kneeling there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once was 

man. 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving 

hearts. 
Hearts that had beat with such a love as 

mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as 

her — 
He softly put his arm about her neck 
And kiss'd her more than once, till help- 
less death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but I 

wrong him, 
He reverenced his dear lady even in 

death ; 
But, placing his true hand upon her 

heart, 
' O, you warm heart,' he moan'd, 'not 

even death 
Can chill you all at once ' : then starting, 

thought 
His dreams had come again. ' Do I 

wake or sleep? 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more ? ' It beat — the heart 

— it beat : 
Faint — but it beat : at which his own 

began 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER 



495 



To pulse with such a vehemence that it 

drown'd 
The feebler motion underneath his hand. 
But when at last his doubts were satisfied, 
He raised her softly from the sepulchre, 
And, wrapping her all over with the cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and 

now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burthen in his arms. 
So bore her thro' the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she 

was born. 

There the good mother's kindly minis- 
tering, 
With half a night's appliances, recall'd 
Her fluttering life : she rais'd an eye that 

ask'd 
* Where ? ' till the things familiar to her 

youth 
Had made a silent answer : then she spoke 
' Here ! and how came I here ? ' and 

learning it 
(They told her somewhat rashly as I 

think) 
At once began to wander and to wail, 
' Ay, but you know that you must give 

me back : 
Send ! bid him come ' ; but Lionel was 

away — 
Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none 

knew where. 
' He casts me out,' she wept, ' and goes ' 

— a wail 
That seeming something, yet was nothing, 

born 
Not from believing mind, but shatter'd 

nerve. 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own reproof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had 

return'd, 
'Oh yes, and you,' she said, 'and none 

but you ? 
For you have given me life and love again. 
And none but you yourself shall tell him 

of it. 
And you shall give me back when he 

returns.' 



' Stay then a little,' answer'd Julian, 

' here. 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to 

yourself ; 
And I will do your will. I may not stay. 
No, not an hour ; but send me notice of 

him 
When he returns, and then will I return, 
And I will make a solemn offering of you 
To him you love.' And faintly she 

replied, 
' And I will do yottr will, and none shall 

know.' 

Not know ? with such a secret to be 

known. 
But all their house was old and loved 

them both. 
And all the house had known the loves 

of both ; 
Had died almost to serve them any way, 
And all the land was waste and solitary : 
And then he rode away ; but after this. 
An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 
Upon her, and that day a boy was born. 
Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And thus our lonely lover rode away. 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh. 
There fever seized upon him : myself was 

then 
Travelling that land, and meant to rest 

an hour ; 
And sitting down to such a base repast, 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and climb'd 
The moulder'd stairs (for everything was 

vile) 
And in a loft, with none to wait on him, 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone. 
Raving of dead men's dust and beating 

hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A flat malarian world of reed and rush ! 
But there from fever and my care of him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help us 

yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreary 

coast, 



496 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



And waited for her message, piece by piece 
I learnt the drearier story of his hfe ; 
And, tho' he loved and honour'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady 

made 
Dwelt in his fancy : did he know her 

worth, 
Her beauty even? should he not be taught, 
Ev'n by the price that others set upon it. 
The value of that jewel he had to guard ? 

Suddenly came her notice and we past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, the 

soul : 
That makes the sequel pure ; tho' some 

of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I : and yet I say the bird 
That will not hear my call, however 

sweet, 
But if my neighbour whistle answers 

him — 
What matter ? there are others in the 

wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought him 

crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of 

hers — 
Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her eyes 

alone. 
But all from these to where she touch'd 

on earth. 
For such a craziness as Julian's look'd 
No less than one divine apology. 

So sweetly and so modestly she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her arms ! 
' Kiss him,' she said. ' You gave me 

life again. 
He, but for you, had never seen it once. 
His other father you ! Kiss him, and then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian too.' 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart I 

his own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him 

there. 



But he was all the more resolved to go, 
And sent at once to Lionel, praying him 
By that great love they both had borne 

the dead, 
To come and revel for one hour with him 
Before he left the land for evermore ; 
And then to friends — they were not many 

— who lived 
Scatteringly about that lonely land of 

his, 
And bad them to a banquet of farewells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast : I 

never 
Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a 

wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one. 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd ; 

and beneath, 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that, Heaven 

knows when, 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten 

sun. 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of 

gloom, 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round in 

gold- 
Others of glass as costly — some with 

gems 
Moveable and resettable at will. 
And trebling all the rest in value — Ah 

heavens ! 
Why need I tell you all ? — suffice to say 
That whatsoever such a house as his, 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 
Was brought before the guest : and they, 

the guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in Julian's 

eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden hour), 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his 
And that resolved self-exile from a land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n 

than rich, 
But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER 



497 



And stranger yet, at one end of the 

hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping down, 
Parted a little ere they met the floor. 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the 

frame. 
And just above the parting was a lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with 

night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with a 

smile. 

Well then — our solemn feast — we ate 

and drank. 
And might — the wines being of such 

nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes, 
And something weird and wild about it 

all: 
What was it ? for our lover seldom spoke. 
Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever and 

anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising, show'd he drank beyond his use ; 
And when the feast was near an end, he 

said : 

* There is a custom in the Orient, 

friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 
Will honour those who feast with him, 

he brings 
And shows them whatsoever he accounts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful, 
Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 
This custom ' 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with 

meeting hands 
And cries about the banquet — 'Beautiful ! 
Who could desire more beauty at a feast ? ' 

The lover answer'd, 'There is more 

than one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me not 
Before my time, but hear me to the close. 
This custom steps yet further when the 

guest 
Is loved and honour'd to the uttermost. 



For after he hath shown him gems or gold, 
He brings and sets before him in rich 

guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as these, 
The beauty that is dearest to his heart — 
" O my heart's lord, would I could show 

you," he says, 
" Ev'n my heart too." And I propose 

to-night 
To show you what is dearest to my heart. 
And my heart too. 

* But solve me first a doubt. 
I knew a man, nor many years ago ; 
He had a faithful servant, one who loved 
His master more than all on earth beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on 

death. 
His master would not wait until he died, 
But bad his menials bear him from the 

door, 
And leave him in the public way to die. 
I knew another, not so long ago, 
Who found the dying servant, took him 

home. 
And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved 

his life. 
I ask you now, should this first master 

claim 
His service, whom does it belong to ? 

him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved 

his life ? ' 

This question, so flung down before 

the guests. 
And balanced either way by each, at 

length 
"WTien some were doubtful how the law 

would hold, 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of 
phrase. 
And he beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet — but warming as he 

went. 
Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by. 
Affirming that as long as either lived, 
2 K 



498 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



By all the laws of love and gratefulness, 
The service of the one so saved was due 
All to the saver — adding, with a smile, 
The first for many weeks — a semi-smile 
As at a strong conclusion — ' body and 

soul 
And life and limbs, all his to work his will.' 

Then Julian made a secret sign to me 
To bring Camilla down before them all. 
And crossing her own picture as she came. 
And looking as much lovelier as herself 
Is lovelier than all others — on her head 
A diamond circlet, and from under this 
A veil, that seemed no more than gilded 

air, 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern gauze 
With seeds of gold — so, with that grace 

of hers. 
Slow-moving as a wave against the wind. 
That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty babe, 
The younger Julian, who himself was 

crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had decked 

them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — I am long in telling it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange. 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — floated 

in — 
While all the guests in mute amazement 

rose — 
And slowly pacing to the middle hall. 
Before the board, there paused and stood, 

her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her feet. 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 
But him she carried, him nor lights nor 

.feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; who 

cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and jewell'd 

world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to prove, 
Wlien Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. 



' My guests,' said Julian : ' you are 

honour'd now 
Ev'n to the uttermost : in her behold 
Of all my treasures the most beautiful. 
Of all things upon earth the dearest to me. 
Then waving us a sign to seat ourselves, 
Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 
And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face 
Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 
Thrice in a second, felt him tremble too. 
And heard him muttering, ' So like, so 

like; 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 
Some cousin of his and hers — O God, so 

like ! ' 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if she 

were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes down, and 

was dumb. 
And then some other question'd if she 

came 
From foreign lands, and still she did not 

speak. 
Another, if the boy were hers : but she 
To all their queries answer'd not a word, 
Which made the amazement more, till 

one of them 
Said, shuddering, ' Her spectre ! ' But 

his friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, ' Not at least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken to. 
Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Prove, as I almost dread to find her, 

dumb ! ' 

But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd all : 
' She is but dumb, because in her you 

see 
That faithful servant whom we spoke 

about. 
Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have here to-night 

a guest 
So bound to me by common love and 

loss — 
Wliat ! shall I bind him more ? in his 

behalf. 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 
That which of all things is the dearest to 

me. 



THE FIRST QUARREL 



499 



Not only showing ? and he himself pro- 
nounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine to give. 

' Now all be dumb, and promise all of 

you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 
Or whisper, while I show you all my 

heart.' 
And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not suffer 

that — 
Past thro' his visions to the burial ; thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his own 

hall; 
And then rose up, and with him all his 

guests 
Once more as by enchantment ; all but he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell again, 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he said : 

* Take my free gift, my cousin, for 

your wife ; 
And were it only for the giver's sake, 
And tho' she seem so like the one you lost. 
Yet cast her not away so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring her 

back : 
I leave this land for ever.' Here he 

ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one hand, 
And bearing on one arm the noble babe, 
He slowly brought them both to Lionel. 
And there the widower husband and dead 

wife 
Rush'd each at each with a cry, that rather 

seem'd 
For some new death than for a liferenew'd ; 
Whereat the very babe began to wail ; 
At once they turn'd, and caught and 

brought him in 
To their charm'd circle, and, half killing 

him 
With kisses, round him closed and claspt 

again. 
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself 
From wife and child, and lifted up a foce 
All over glowing with the sun of life, 
And love, and boundless thanks — the 

sight of this 



So frighted our good friend, that turning 

to me 
And saying, ' It is over : let us go ' — 
There were our horses ready at the 

doors — 
We bad them no farewell, but mounting 

these 
He past for ever from his native land ; 
And I with him, my Julian, back to mine. 



TO ALFRED TENNYSON 

MY GRANDSON 

Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with 

mine, 
Crazy with laughter and babble and earth's new 

wine, 
Now that the flower of a year and a half is thine, 
O little blossom, O mine, and mine of mine. 
Glorious poet who never hast written a line, 
Laugh, for the name at the head of my verse is 

thine. 
May'st thou never be wrong'd by the name that 



THE FIRST QUARREL 

(IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT) 
I 

' Wait a little,' you say, ' you are sure 

it '11 all come right,' 
But the boy was born i' trouble, an' looks 

so wan an' so white : 
Wait ! an' once I ha' waited — I hadn't 

to wait for long. 
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry. — No, 

no, you are doing me wrong ! 
Harry and I were married : the boy can 

hold up his head. 
The boy was born in wedlock, but after 

my man was dead ; 
I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' I 

work an' I wait to the end. 
I am all alone in the world, an' you are 

my only friend. 
II 
Doctor, \i you can wvait, I'll tell you the 

tale o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he call'd 

me his own little wdfe : 



500 



THE FIRST QUARREL 



I was happy when I was with him, an' 

sorry when he was away, 
An' when we play'd together, I loved him 

better than play ; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he made 

me the cowslip ball, 
He fought the boys that were rude, an' I 

loved him better than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at 

home in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I had 

but to look in his face. 



There was a farmer in Dorset of Harr}^'s 

kin, that had need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm ; he sent, 

an' the father agreed ; "* 

So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire 

farm for years an' for years ; 
I walked with him down to the quay, 

poor lad, an' we parted in tears. 
The boat was beginning to move, we 

heard them a-ringing the bell, 
' I'll never love any but you, God bless 

you, my own little Nell.' 

IV 

I was a child, an' he was a child, an' he 

came to harm ; 
There was a girl, a hussy, that workt with 

him up at the farm. 
One had deceived her an' left her alone 

with her sin an' her shame. 
And so she was wicked with Harry ; the 

girl was the most to blame. 

V 
And years went over till I that was little 

had grown so tall. 
The men would say of the maids, ' Our 

Nelly's the flower of 'em all.' 
I didn't take heed o' them, but I taught 

myself all I could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when 

Harry came home for good. 

VI 

Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as 

happy too. 
For I heard it abroad in the fields ' I'll 

never love any but you ' ; 



' I'll never love any but you ' the morning 
song of the lark, 

' I'll never love any but you ' the nightin- 
gale's hymn in the dark. 



And Harry came home at last, but he 

look'd at me sidelong and shy, 
Vext me a bit, till he told me that so 

many years had gone by, 
I had grown so handsome and tall — that 

I might ha' forgot him somehow — 
For he thought — there were other lads — 

he was fear'd to look at me now. 



Hard was the frost in the field, we were 

married o' Christmas day, 
Married among the red berries, an' all as 

merry as May — 
Those were the pleasant times, my house 

an' my man were my pride. 
We seem'd like ships i' the Channel a- 

sailing with wind an' tide. 



But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he 

tried the villages round, 
So Harry went over the Solent to see if 

work could be found ; 
An' he wrote ' I ha' six weeks' work, 

little wife, so far as I know ; 
I'll come for an hour to-morrow, an' kiss 

you before I go.' 



So I set to righting the house, for wasn't 

he coming that day ? 
An' I hit on an old deal-box that was 

push'd in a corner away. 
It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a 

letter along wi' the rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand in a 

hornets' nest. 

XI 

' Sweetheart ' — this was the letter — this 

was the letter I read — 
' You promised to find me work near you, 

an' I wish I was dead — 



RIZPAH 



Sot 



Didn't you kiss me an' promise ? you 
haven't done it, my lad, 

An' I almost died o' your going away, 
an' I wish that I had.' 

XII 

I too wish that I had — in the pleasant 

times that had past, 
Before I quarrell'd with Harry — my 

quarrel — the first an' the last. 

XIII 

For Harry came in, an' I flung him the 

letter that drove me wild. 
An' he told it me all at once, as simple as 

any child, 
' What can it matter, my lass, what I did 

wi' my single life .? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to 

his wife ; 
An' she wasn't one o' the worst.' * Then,' 

I said, ' I'm none o' the best.' 
An' he smiled at me, * Ain't you, my love ? 

Come, come, little wife, let it rest ! 
The man isn't like the woman, no need 

to make such a stir.' 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I said 

' You were keeping with her. 
When I was a-loving you all along an' the 

same as before.' 
An' he didn't speak for a while an' he 

anger'd me more and more. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle 

way, ' Let bygones be ! ' 
' Bygones ! you kept yours hush'd,' I said, 

* when you married me ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains ; an' she — 

in her shame an' her sin — 
You'll have her to nurse my child, if I 

die o' my lying in ! 
You'll make her its second mother ! I 

hate her — an' I hate you ! ' 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better ha' 

beaten me black an' blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, 

when I were so crazy wi' spite, 
' Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill 

all come right.' 

XIV 

An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I 
watch'd him, an' when he came in 



I felt that my heart was hard, he was all 

wet thro' to the skin, 
An' I never said ' off wi' the wet,' I never 

said ' on wi' the dry,' 
So I knew my heart was hard, when he 

came to bid me goodbye. 
' You said that you hated me, Ellen, but 

that isn't true, you know ; 
I am going to leave you a bit — you'll kiss 

me before I go ? ' 



' Going ! you're going to her — kiss her — 

if you will,' I said — 
I was near my time wi' the boy, I must 

ha' been light i' my head — 
' I had sooner be cursed than kiss'd ! ' — I 

didn't know well what I meant, 
But I turn'd my face from him, an' he 

turn'd his face an' he went. 



And then he sent me a letter, ' I've gotten 
my work to do ; 

You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I 
never loved any but you ; 

I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry for 
what she wrote, 

I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go to- 
night by the boat.' 

XVII 

An' the wind began to rise, an' I thought 

of him out at sea. 
An' I felt I had been to blame ; he was 

always kind to me. 
' Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill 

all come right ' — 
An' the boat went down that night — the 

boat went down that night. 

RIZPAH 

17— 

I 

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind 

over land and sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, ' O mother, 

come out to me.' 



502 



RIZPAH 



Why should he call me to-night, when he 
knows that I cannot go ? 

For the downs are as bright as day, and 
the full moon stares at the snow. 



We should be seen, my dear ; they would 

spy us out of the town. 
The loud black nights for us, and the 

storm rushing over the down, 
When I cannot see my own hand, but am 

led by the creak of the chain, 
And grovel and grope for my son till I 

find myself drenched with the rain. 



Anything fallen again ? nay — what was 

there left to fall ? 
I have taken them home, I have number'd 

the bones, I have hidden them all. 
What am I sa3dng ? and what are yon ? 

do you come as a spy ? 
Falls ? what falls ? who knows ? As the 

tree falls so must it lie. 



Who let her in ? how long has she been ? 

you — what have you heard ? 
Wliy did you sit so quiet ? you never have 

spoken a word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none 

of their spies — 
But the night has crept into my heart, 

and begun to darken my eyes. 



Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what 

should you know of the night. 
The blast and the burning shame and the 

bitter frost and the fright ? 
I have done it, while you were asleep — 

you were only made for the day. 
I have gather'd my baby together — and 

now you may go your way. 



Nay — for it's kind of you. Madam, to sit 

by an old dying wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have 

only an hour of life. 



I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he 

went out to die. 
' They dared me to do it,' he said, and he 

never has told me a lie. 
I whipt him for robbing an orchard once 

when he was but a child — 
' The farmer dared me to do it,' he said ; 

he was always so wild — 
And idle — and couldn't be idle — my 

Willy — he never could rest. 
The King should have made him a soldier, 

he would have been one of his best. 

VII 

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and 

they never would let him be good ; 
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, 

and he swore that he would ; 
And he took no life, but he took one 

purse, and when all was done 
He flung it among his fellows — I'll none 

of it, said my son. 



I came into court to the Judge and the 

lawyers. I told them my tale, 
God's own truth — but they kill'd him, 

theykill'd him for robbing the mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show — 

we had always borne agood name — 
To be hang'd for a thief — and then put 

away — isn't that enough shame ? 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! 

but they set him so high 
That all the ships of the world could 

stare at him, passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell -black raven and 

horrible fowls of the air. 
But not the black heart of the lawyer who 

kill'd him and hang'd him there. 



And the jailer forced me away. I had 

bid him my last goodbye ; 
They had fasten'd the door of his cell. 

' O mother ! ' I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had 

something further to say, 
And now I never shall know it. The 

jailer forced me away. 



RIZPAH 



503 



Then since I couldn't but hear that cry 

of my boy that was dead, 
They seized me and shut me up : they 

fasten'd me down on my bed. 
' Mother, O mother ! ' — he call'd in the 

dark to me year after year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me — 

you know that I couldn't but hear ; 
And then at the last they found I had 

grown so stupid and still 
They let me abroad again — but the 

creatures had worked their will. 



Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of 

my bone was left — 
I stole them all from the lawyers — and 

you, will you call it a theft ? — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, 

the bones that had laughed and 

had cried — 
Theirs ? O no ! they are mine — not 

theirs — they had moved in my side. 

XII 

Do you think I was scared by the bones? 

I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night 

by the churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the 

trumpet of judgment 'ill sound. 
But I charge you never to say that I laid 

him in holy ground. 



They would scratch him up — they would 
hang him again on the cursed tree. 

Sin ? O yes — we are sinners, I know — 
let all that be, 

And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's 
good will toward men — 

'Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord' 
— let me hear it again ; 

' Full of compassion and mercy — long- 
suffering.' Yes, O yes ! 

For the lawyer is born but to murder — 
the Saviour lives but to bless. 



Hc'Vi never put on the black cap except 

for the worst of the worst, 
And the first maybe last — I have heard it 

in church — and the last may be 

first. 
Suffering — O long-suffering — yes, as the 

Lord must know, 
Year after year in the mist and the wind 

and the shower and the snow. 



Heard, have you ? what ? they have told 

you he never repented his sin. 
How do they know it ? are they his 

mother ? are you of his kin ? 
Heard ! have you ever heard, when the 

storm on the downs began. 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and 

the sea that 'ill moan like a man ? 



Election, Election and Reprobation — it's 

all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall 

not find him in Hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that the 

Lord has look'd into my care, 
And He means me I'm sure to be happy 

with Willy, I know not where. 



And if he be lost — but to save my soul, 

that is all your desire : 
Do you think that I care for my soul if 

my boy be gone to the fire ? 
I have been with God in the dark — go, 

go, you may leave me alone — 
You never have borne a child — you are 

just as hard as a stone. 



Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think 

that you mean to be kind, 
But I cannot hear what you say for my 

Willy's voice in the wind — 
The snow and the sky so bright — he used 

but to call in the dark, 
Aiid he calls to me now from the church 

and not from the gibbet — for hark ! 



1 



504 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER 



Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is 
coming — shaking the walls — 

Willy — the moon's in a cloud Good- 
night. I am going. He calls. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER 

I 

WaAit till our Sally cooms in, fur thou 

mun 'a sights ^ to tell. 
Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha sa 

'arty an' well. 
' Cast awaay on a disolut land wi' a 

vartical soon ^ ! ' 
Strange fur to goa fur to think what 

saailors 'a seean an' 'a doon ; 
' Summat to drink — sa' 'ot ? ' I 'a nowt 

but Adam's wine : 
What's the 'eat o' this Httle 'ill-side to 

the 'eat o' the line ? 

II 

' What's i' tha bottle a-stanning theer ? ' 

1^11 tell tha. Gin. 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun goa 

fur it down to the inn. 
Naay — fur I be maain glad, but thaw tha 

was iver sa dry. 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, 

an' I'll tell tha why. 



Mea an' thy sister was married, when 

wur it ? back-end o' June, 
Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well as a 

fiddle i' tune : 
I could fettle and clump owd booots and 

shoes wi' the best on 'em all. 
As fer as fro' Thursby thurn hup to 

Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. 

1 The vowels a'i, pronounced separately though 
in the closest conjunction, best render the sound 
of the long i and y in this dialect. But since such 
words as craiin , daiiti, wha'i, a'i (I), etc., look 
awkward except in a page of express phonetics, 
I have thought it better to leave the simple i and 
y, and to trust that my readers will give them the 
broader pronunciation. 

2 The 00 short, as in ' wood.' 



We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' as 
'appy as 'art could think. 

An' then the babby wur burn, and then 
I taakes to the drink. 



An' I weant gaainsaay it, my lad, thaw I 

be hafe shaamed on it now, 
We could sing a good song at the Plow, we 

could sing a good song at the Plow ; 
Thaw once of a frosty night I slither'd an' 

hurted my huck,i 
An' I cooni'd neck-an'-crop soomtimes 

slaape down i' the squad an' the 

muck ; 
An' once I fowt wi' the Taailor — not hafe 

ov a man, my lad — 
Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my faace 

like a cat, an' it maade 'er sa mad 
That Sally she turn'd a tongue-banger,^ 

an' raated ma, ' Sottin' thy braains 
Guzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' 

hawmin' ^ about i' the laanes, 
Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not touch 

thy 'at to the Squire ' ; 
An' I loook'd cock-eyed at my noase an' 

I seead 'im a-gittin' o' fire ; 
But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hallus 

as droonk as a king, 
Foalks' coostom flitted awaay like a kite 

wi' a brokken string. 



An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' cloaths toj 

keep the wolf fro' the door. 
Eh but the moor she riled me, she druvj 

me to drink the moor. 
Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd,"] 

wheer Sally's owd stockin' wur 'id, 
An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, anc 

I wear'd it o' liquor, I did. 



An' one night I cooms 'oam like a bulll 

gotten loose at a faair, 
An' she wur a-wa'aitin' fo'mma, an' cryin' 

and tearin' 'er 'aair, 



Hip. 



2 Scold. 



3 Lounging. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER 



505 



An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' 

swear'd as I'd break ivry stick 
O' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied 

our Sally a kick, 
An' I mash'd the taiibles an' chairs, an' 

she an' the babby beal'd,^ 
Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did nor 

a mortal beast o' the feald. 



An' when I waaked i' the murnin' I seead 

that our Sally went laamed 
'Cos o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur 

dreadful asha'amed ; 
An' Sally wur sloomy^ an' draggle taail'd 

in an owd turn gown, 
An' the babby's faace wurn't wesh'd an' 

the 'ole 'ouse hupside down. 



An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty 

an' neat an' sweeat, 
Straat as a pole an' clean as a flower fro' 

'eiid to feeat : 
An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 

'er by Thursby thurn ; 
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of a 

Sunday at murn, 
Couldn't see 'im, we 'card 'im a-mountin' 

oop 'igher an' 'igher, 
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e 

shined like a sparkle o' fire. 
* Doesn't tha see 'im,' she axes, ' fur I 

can see 'im ? ' an' I 
Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as 

danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; 
An' I says 'I mun gie tha a kiss,' an' 

Sally says ' Noa, thou moant,' 
But I gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, 

an' Sally says ' doant ! ' 



An' when we coom'd into Meeatin', at 
fust she wur all in a tew. 

But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togither 
like birds on a beugh ; 

1 Bellowed, cried out. 
2 Sluggish, out of spirits. 



An' Muggins 'e preach'd o' liell-fire arf 
the loov o' God fur men, 

An' then upo' coomin' awaay Sally gied 
me a kiss ov 'ersen. 



Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick like 

Saatan as fell 
Down out o' heaven i' Hell -fire — thaw 

theer's naw drinkin' i' Hell ; 
Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep the wolf 

fro' the door. 
All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er 

as well as afoor. 



Sa like a great num-cumpus I blubber'd 

awaay o' the bed — 
' Weant niver do it naw moor ' ; an' 

Sally loookt up an' she said, 
' I'll upowd it 1 tha weant ; thou'rt like 

the rest o' the men, 
Thou'll goa sniffin' about the tap till tha 

does it agean. 
Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I knaws, 

as knaws tha sa well, 
That, if tha seeas 'im an' smells 'im tha'U 

foller 'im slick into Hell.' 

XII 

' Naay,' says I, 'fur I weant goa sniffin' 

about the tap.' 
' Weant tha ? ' she says, an' mysen I 

thowt i' mysen 'mayhap.' 
' Noa ' : an' I started awaay like a shot, 

an' down to the Hinn, 
An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' theer, 

yon big black bottle o' gin. 

XIII 

' That caps owt,' ^ says Sally, an' saw she 

begins to cry. 
But I puts it inter 'er 'ands an' I says to 

'er, ' Sally,' says I, 
' Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the Lord 

an' the power ov 'is Graace, 
Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loook my hennemy 

strait i' the faace, 

1 I'll uphold it. 
2 That's beyond everything. 



50b 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER 



Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let ma 

loook at 'im then, 
'E seeams naw moor nor watter, an' 'e's 

the Divil's oan sen.' 



An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't do 

naw work an' all, 
Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an' poonch'd 

my 'and wi' the hawl. 
But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' 

sattled 'ersen o' my knee, 
An' coaxd an' coodled me oop till age'an 

I feel'd mysen free. 



An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' foalk 

stood a-gawmin' ^ in. 
As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd istead 

of a quart o' gin ; 
An' some on 'em said it wur watter — an' 

I wur chousin' the wife, 
Fur I couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur it 

nobbut to saave my life ; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick ov 

'is airm, an' 'e shaws it to me, 
' Feeal thou this ! thou can't graw this 

upo' watter ! ' says he. 
An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just as 

candles was lit, 
'Thou moant do it,' he says, 'tha mun 

break 'im off bit by bit.' 
'Thou'rt but a Methody-man,' says Par- 
son, and laays down 'is 'at. 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, ' but I 

respecks tha fur that ' ; 
An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks down 

fro' the 'All to see. 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, ' fur I 

respecks tha,' says 'e ; 
An' coostom agean draw'd in like a wind 

fro' far an' wide. 
And browt me the booots to be cobbled 

fro' hafe the coontryside. 



An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall stan 
to my dying daay ; 

1 Staring vacantly. 



I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in anoother 

kind of a waay, 
Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I keeaps 

'im clean an' bright, 
Loovs 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 'im, 

an' puts 'im back i' the light. 



Wouldn't a pint 'a sarved as well as a 

quart ? Naw doubt : 
But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' an' 

fowt it out. 
Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I 

cared to taaste. 
But I moant, my lad, and I weant, fur 

I'd feal mysen clean disgraaced. 



An' once I said to the Missis, ' My lass, 

when I cooms to die. 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the Divil's 

in 'im,' said I. 
But arter I chaanged my mind, an' if 

Sally be left aloan, 
ril hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an' taake 

'im afoor the Throan. 



Coom thou 'eer — yon laady a-steppin' 

along the streeat, 
Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' feat, 

an' neat, an' sweeat? 
Look at the cloaths on 'er back, thebbe 

ammost spick-span-new. 
An' Tommy's faace be as fresh as a codlin 

wesh'd i' the dew. 



'Ere be our Sally an' Tommy, an' we be 
a-goin to dine, 

Baacon an' taates, an' a beslings pud- 
din' 1 an' Adam's wine ; 

But if tha wants ony grog tha mun go'a 
fur it down to the Hinn, 

Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, 
no'a, not fur Sally's oan kin. 

1 A pudding made with the first milk of the coW 
after calving. 



THE REVENGE 



507 



THE REVENGE 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 
I 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay, 
And a pinnace, Hke a flutter'd bird, came 

flying from far away : 
' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have 

sighted fifty-three ! ' 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : 

' 'Fore God I am no coward ; 
But 1 cannot meet them here, for my 

ships are out of gear. 
And the half my men are sick. I must 

fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line; can we 

fight with fifty-three ? ' 



Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I 
know you are no coward ; 

You fly them for a moment to fight with 
them again. 

But I've ninety men and more that are 
lying sick ashore. 

I should count myself the coward if I left 
them, my Lord Howard, 

To these Inquisition dogs and the devil- 
doms of Spain.' 



So Lord Howard past away with five 

ships of war that day. 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent 

summer heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick 

men from the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down 

below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
And they blest him in their pain, that they 

were not left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the 

glory of the Lord. 



He had only a hundred seamen to work 

the ship and to fight. 
And he sailed away from Flores till the 

Spaniard came in sight. 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon 

the weather bow. 
' Shall we fight or shall we fly ? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There'll be little of us left by the time 

this sun be set.' 
And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all 

good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 

children of the devil. 
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or 

devil yet.' 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and 

we roar'd a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the 

heart of the foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and 

her ninety sick below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right and 

half to the left were seen. 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the 

long sea-lane between. 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd down 

from their decks and laugh'd. 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at 

the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Philip that, 

of fifteen hundred tons. 
And up -shadowing high above us with 

her yawning tiers of guns. 
Took the breath from our sails, and we 

stay'd. 



And while now the great San Philip hung 

above us like a cloud 
Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 



So8 



THE REVENGE 



Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon 

the starboard lay, 
And the battle-thunder broke from them 

all. 



But anon the great San Philip, she be- 
thought herself and went 

Having that within her womb that had 
left her ill content ; 

And the rest they came aboard us, and 
they fought us hand to hand, 

For a dozen times they came with their 
pikes and musqueteers. 

And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a 
dog that shakes his ears 

When he leaps from the water to the land. 



And the sun went down, and the stars 

came out far over the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of 

the one and the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

their high-built galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

with her battle -thunder and flame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew 

back with her dead and her shame. 
For some were sunk and many were shat- 

ter'd, and so could fight us no 

more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this 

in the world before ? 



For he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when half of the 

short summer night was gone. 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had 

left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing 

it suddenly dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in the 

side and the head. 
And he said ' Fight on ! fight on J ' 



And the night went down, and the sun 

smiled out far over the summer sea, 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides 

lay round us all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for 

they fear'd that we still could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we. 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain. 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the 

desperate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold wer 

most of them stark and cold 
And the pikes were all broken or ben 

and the powder was all of it spent 
And the masts and the rigging were lying' 

over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
' We have fought such a fight for a day 

and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when ? 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink 

her, split her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the 

hands of Spain ! ' 



And the gunner said ' Ay, ay,' but the 

seamen made reply : 
' We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if 

we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike 

another blow.' 
And the lion there lay dying, and they 

yielded to the foe. 



And the stately Spanish men to their 
flagship bore him then, 



fe 

i 



THE SISTERS 



509 



Where they laid him by the mast, old 

Sir Richard caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with 

their courtly foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 
' I have fought for Queen and Faith like 

a valiant man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do : 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Gren- 

ville die ! ' 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 



And they stared at the dead that had 

been so valiant and true, 
And had holden the power and glory of 

Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship 

and his English few ; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil 

for aught they knew, 
But they sank his body with honour down 

into the deep. 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a 

swarthier alien crew. 
And away she sail'd with her loss and 

long'd for her own ; 
Wlien a wind from the lands they had 

ruin'd awoke from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the 

weather to moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a great 

gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is raised 

by an earthquake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails 

and their masts and their flags. 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on 

the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down 

by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 

THE SISTERS 

They have left the doors ajar ; and by 

their clash. 
And prelude on the keys, I know the 

song. 



Their favourite — which I call ' The Tables 

Turned.' 
Evelyn begins it ' O diviner Air.' 

EVELYN 

O diviner Air, 

Thro' the heat, the drowth, the dust, the 

glare. 
Far from out the west in shadowing 

showers. 
Over all the meadow baked and bare, 
Making fresh and fair 
All the bowers and the flowers, 
Fainting flowers, faded bowers. 
Over all this weary world of ours, 
Breathe, diviner Air ! 

A sweet voice that — you scarce could 

better that. 
Now follows Edith echoing Evelyn. 

EDITH 

O diviner light. 

Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon with 

night. 
Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding 

showers. 
Far from out a sky for ever bright. 
Over all the woodland's flooded bowers. 
Over all the meadow's drowning flowers. 
Over all this ruin'd world of ours, 
Break, diviner light ! 

Marvellously like, their voices — and them- 
selves ! 
Tho' one is somewhat deeper than the 

other. 
As one is somewhat graver than the other — 
Edith than Evelyn. Your good Uncle, 

whom 
You count the father of your fortune, 

longs 
For this alliance : let me ask you then, 
WTiich voice most takes you ? for I do 

not doubt 
Being a watchful parent, you are taken 
With one or other : tho' sometimes I 

fear 
You may be flickering, fluttering in a 

doubt 



510 



THE SISTERS 



Between the two — which must not be — 

which might 
Be death to one : they both are beautiful : 
Evelyn is gayer, wittier, prettier, says 
The common voice, if one may trust it : 

she ? 
No ! but the paler and the graver, Edith. 
Woo her and gain her then : no waver- 
ing, boy ! 
The graver is perhaps the one for you 
Who jest and laugh so easily and so well. 
For love will go by contrast, as by likes. 

No sisters ever prized each other more. 
Not so : their mother and her sister loved 
More passionately still. 

But that my best 
And oldest friend, your Uncle, wishes it. 
And that I know you worthy everyway 
To be my son, I might, perchance, be loath 
To part them, or part from them : and 

yet one 
Should marry, or all the broad lands in 

your view 
From this bay window — which our house 

has held 
Three hundred years — will pass collater- 
ally. 

My father with a child on either knee, 
A hand upon the head of either child, 
Smoothing their locks, as golden as his 

own 
Were silver, ' get them wedded ' would 

he say. 
And once my prattling Edith ask'd him 

' why ? ' 
Ay, why ? said he, ' for why should I go 

lame ? ' 
Then told them of his wars, and of his 

wound. 
For see — this wine — the grape from 

whence it flow'd 
Was blackening on the slopes of Portugal, 
When that brave soldier, down the terrible 

ridge 
Plunged in the last fierce charge at 

Waterloo, 
And caught the laming bullet. He left 

me this. 



Which yet retains a memory of its youth, 
As I of mine, and my first passion. 

Come ! 
Here's to your happy union with my child ! 

Yet must you change your name : no 
fault of mine ! 

You say that you can do it as willingly 

As birds make ready for their bridal- 
time 

By change of feather : for all that, my 
boy. 

Some birds are sick and sullen when they 
moult. 

An old and worthy name ! but mine that 
stirr'd 

Among our civil wars and earlier too 

Among the Roses, the more venerable. 

/ care not for a name — no fault of mine. 

Once more — a happier marriage than my 
own ! 

You see yon Lombard poplar on the 

plain. 
The highway running by it leaves a breadth 
Of sward to left and right, where, long 

ago. 
One bright May morning in a world of 

song, 
I lay at leisure, watching overhead 
The aerial poplar wave, an amber spire. 

I dozed ; I woke. An open landaulet 
Whirl'd by, which, after it had past me, 

show'd 
Turning my way, the loveliest face on 

earth. 
The face of one there sitting opposite. 
On whom I brought a strange unhappi- 

ness. 
That time I did not see. 

Love at first sight 
May seem — with goodly rhyme and 

reason for it — 
Possible — at first glimpse, and for a face 
Gone in a moment — strange. Yet once, 

when first 
I came on lake Llanberris in the dark, 
A moonless night with storm — one light- 
ning-fork 



THE SISTERS 



511 



^lash'd out the lake ; and tho' I loiter'd 

there 
rhe full day after, yet in retrospect 
rhat less than momentary thunder-sketch 
)f lake and mountain conquers all the day. 

The Sun himself has limn'd the face 

for me. 
■"Jot quite so quickly, no, nor half as well, 
i^or look you here — the shadows are too 

deep, 
\.nd like the critic's blurring comment 

make 
rhe veriest beauties of the work appear 
rhe darkest faults : the sweet eyes frown : 

the lips 
seem but a gash. My sole memorial 
3f Edith — no, the other, — both indeed. 

So that bright face was flash'd thro' 

sense and soul 

^.nd by the poplar vanish'd — to be found 

Long after, as it seem'd, beneath the tall 

Free -bowers, and those long -sweeping 

beechen boughs 
3f our New Forest. I was there alone : 
riie phantom of the whirling landaulet 
Vox ever past me by : when one quick 

peal 
3f laughter drew me thro' the glimmer- 
ing glades 
Down to the snowlike sparkle of a cloth 
On fern and foxglove. Lo, the face again, 
My Rosalind in this Arden — Edith — all 
One bloom of youth, health, beauty, 

happiness. 
And moved to merriment at a passing jest. 

There one of those about her knowing 

me 
Call'd me to join them ; so with these I 

spent 
What seem'd my crowning hour, my day 

of days. 

I woo'd her then, nor unsuccessfully. 
The worse for her, for me ! was I content ? 
Ay — no, not quite ; for now and then I 

thought 
Laziness, vague love-longings, the bright 

May, 



Had made a heated haze to magnify 
The charm of Edith — that a man's ideal 
Is high in Heaven, and lodged with 

Plato's God, 
Not findable here — content, and not con- 
tent. 
In some such fashion as a man may be 
That having had the portrait of his friend 
Drawn by an artist, looks at it, and says, 
' Good ! very like ! not altogether he.' 

As yet I had not bound myself by 

words. 
Only, believing I loved Edith, made 
Edith love me. Then came the day 

when I, 
Flattering myself that all my doubts were 

fools 
Born of the fool this Age that doubts of 

ail- 
Not I that day of Edith's love or mine — 
Had braced my purpose to declare my- 
self: 
I stood upon the stairs of Paradise. 
The golden gates would open at a word. 
I spoke it — told her of my passion, seen 
And lost and found again, had got so far, 
Had caught her hand, her eyelids fell — I 

heard 
Wheels, and a noise of welcome at the 

doors — 
On a sudden after two Italian years 
Had set the blossom of her health again. 
The younger sister, Evelyn, enter'd — 

there. 
There was the face, and altogether she. 
The mother fell aVjout the daughter's 

neck. 
The sisters closed in one another's arms. 
Their people throng'd about them from 

the hall. 
And in the thick of question and reply 
I fled the house, driven by one angel face. 
And all the Furies. 

I was bound to her ; 
I could not free mysdf in honour — bound 
Not by the sounded letter of the word. 
But counterpressures of the yielded hand 
That timorously and faintly echoed mine, 



512 



THE SISTERS 



Quick blushes, the sweet dwelling of her 

eyes 
Upon me when she thought I did not 

see — 
Were these not bonds ? nay, nay, but 

could I wed her 
Loving the other ? do her that great 

wrong ? 
Had I not dream'd I loved her yester- 

morn ? 
Had I not known where Love, at first a 

fear, 
Grew after marriage to full height and 

form? 
Yet after marriage, that mock -sister 

there — 
Brother-in-law — the fiery nearness of it — 
Unlawful and disloyal brotherhood — 
What end but darkness could ensue from 

this 
For all the three ? So Love and Honour 

jarr'd 
Tho' Love and Honour join'd to raise 

the full 
High -tide of doubt that sway'd me up 

and down 
Advancing nor retreating. 

Edith wrote : 
' My mother bids me ask ' (I did not tell 

you — 
A widow with less guile than many a child. 
God help the wrinkled children that are 

Christ's 
As well as the plump cheek — she wrought 

us harm, 
Poor soul, not knowing) 'are you ill?' 

(so ran 
The letter) 'you have not been here of 

late. 
You will not find me here. At last I go 
On that long-promised visit to the North. 
I told your wayside story to my mother 
And Evelyn. She remembers you. 

Farewell. 
Pray come and see my mother. Almost 

blind 
With ever-growing cataract, yet she thinks 
She sees you when she hears. Again 

farewell,' 



Cold words from one I had hoped to 

warm so far 
That I could stamp my image on her 

heart ! 
' Pray come and see my mother, and 

farewell.' 
Cold, but as welcome as free airs of 

heaven 
After a dungeon's closeness. Selfish, 

strange ! 
What dwarfs are men ! my strangled 

vanity 
Utter'd a stifled cry — to have vext myself 
And all in vain for her — cold heart or 

none — 
No bride for me. Yet so my path was 

clear 
To win the sister. 

Whom I woo'd and won. 

For Evelyn knew not of my former suit, 

Because the simple mother work'd upon 

By Edith pray'd me not to whisper of it. 

And Edith would be bridesmaid on the 

day. 
But on that day, not being all at ease, 
I from the altar glancing back upon her, 
Before the first ' I will ' was utter'd, saw 
The bridesmaid pale, statuelike, passion-.- 

less — 
' No harm, no harm ' I turn'd again, and 

placed 
My ring upon the finger of my bride. 

So, when we parted, Edith spoke no 

word, 
She wept no tear, but round my Evelyn 

clung 
In utter silence for so long, I thought 
' What, will she never set her sister free ? ' 

We left her, happy each in each, and 

then, 
As tho' the happiness of each in each 
Were not enough, must fain have torrents, 

lakes. 
Hills, the great things of Nature and the 

fair. 
To lift us as it were from commonplace. 
And help us to our joy. Better have 

sent 



THE SISTERS 



513 



Our Edith thro' the glories of the earth, 
To change with her horizon, if true Love 
Were not his own imperial all-in-all. 

Far off we went. My God, I would 

not live 
Save that I think this gross hard-seeming 

world 
Is our misshaping vision of the Powers 
Behind the world, that make our griefs 

our gains. 

For on the dark night of our marriage- 
day 
The great Tragedian, that had quench'd 

herself 
In that assumption of the bridesmaid — 

she 
That loved me — our true Edith — her 

brain broke 
With over-acting, till she rose and fled 
Beneath a pitiless rush of Autumn rain 
To the deaf church — to be let in — to pray 
Before that altar — so I think ; and there 
They found her beating the hard Protest- 
ant doors. 
She died and she was buried ere we 
knew. 

I learnt it first. I had to speak. At 

once 
The bright quick smile of Evelyn, that 

had sunn'd 
The morning of our marriage, past away : 
And on our home-return the daily want 
Of Edith in the house, the garden, still 
Haunted us like her ghost ; and by and 

by, 

Either from that necessity for talk 
Which lives with blindness, or plain 

innocence 
Of nature, or desire that her lost child 
Should earn from both the praise of 

heroism, 
The mother broke her promise to the 

dead, 
And told the living daughter with what 

love 
Edith had welcomed my brief wooing of 

her. 
And all her sweet self-sacrifice and death. 



Henceforth that mystic bond betwixt 

the twins — 
Did I not tell you they were twins ? — 

prevail'd 
So far that no caress could win my wife 
Back to that passionate answer of full 

heart 
I had from her at first. Not that her love, 
Tho' scarce as great as Edith's power of 

love. 
Had lessen'd, but the mother's garrulous 

wail 
For ever woke the unhappy Past again, 
Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to be 

my bride. 
Put forth cold hands between us, and I 

fear'd 
The very fountains of her life were 

chill'd ; 
So took her thence, and brought her 

here, and here 
She bore a child, whom reverently we 

call'd 
Edith ; and in the second year was born 
A second — this I named from her own 

self, 
Evelyn ; then two weeks — no more — she 

joined, 
In and beyond the grave, that one she 

loved. 
Now in this quiet of declining life, 
Thro' dreams by night and trances of the 

day. 
The sisters glide about me hand in hand. 
Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell 
One from the other, no, nor care to tell 
One from the other, only know they 

come. 
They smile upon me, till, remembering 

all 
The love they both have borne me, and 

the love 
I bore them both — divided as I am 
From either by the stillness of the grave — 
I know not which of these I love the 

best. 

But you love Edith ; and her own true 
eyes 
Are traitors to her ; our quick Evelyn — 
2 L 



514 



THE VILLAGE WIFE ; OR, THE ENTAIL 



The merrier, prettier, wittier, as they 

talk, 
And not without good reason, my good 

son — 
Is yet untouch'd : and I that hold them 

both 
Dearest of all things — well, I am not 

sure — 
But if there lie a preference eitherway. 
And in the rich vocabulary of Love 
' Most dearest ' be a true superlative — 
I think / likewise love your Edith most, 

THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, 
THE ENTAIL 1 



'OusE-KEEPER Sent tha my lass, fur New 
Squire coom'd last night. 

Butter an' heggs — yis — yis. I'll goa wi' 
tha back : all right ; 

Butter I warrants be prime, an' I war- 
rants the heggs be as well, 

Hafe a pint o' milk runs out when ya 
breaks the shell. 



Sit thysen down fur a bit : hev a glass o' 

cowslip wine ! 
I liked the owd Squire an' 'is gells as 

thaw they was gells o' mine, 
Fur then we was all es one, the Squire 

an' 'is darters an' me, 
Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I niver 

not took to she : 
But Nelly, the last of the cletch,2 I liked 

'er the fust on 'em all. 
Fur hofifens we talkt o' my darter es died 

o' the fever at fall : 
An' I thowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, but 

Miss Annie she said it wur draains. 
Fur she hedn't naw coomfut in 'er, an' 

arn'd naw thanks fur 'er paains. 
Eh ! thebbe all wi' the Lord my childer, 

I han't gotten none ! 
Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 'is 

'and, an' owd Squire's gone. 

^ See note to ' Northern Cobbler.' 
2 A brood of chickens. 



Fur 'staate be i' taail, my lass : tha dosn' 

knaw what that be ? 
But I knaws the law, I does, for the 

lawyer ha towd it me. 
' When theer's naw 'ead to a 'Ouse by 

the fault o' that ere maale — 
The gells they counts fur nowt, and the 

next un he taakes the taail.' 

IV 

What be the next un like ? can tha tell 

ony harm on 'im lass ? — 
Naay sit down — naw 'urry — sa cowd ! — 

hev another glass ! 
Straange an' cowd fur the time ! we may 

happen a fall o' snaw — 
Not es I cares fur to hear ony harm, but 

I likes to knaw. 
An' I 'oaps es 'e beant boooklarn'd : but 

'e dosn' not coom fro' the shere ; 
We'd anew o' that wi' the Squire, an' we 

haates boooklarnin' ere. 



Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an' 

niver lookt arter the land — 
Whoats or tonups or taates — 'e 'ed hallus 

a boook i' 'is 'and, 
Hallus aloan wi' 'is boooks, thaw nigh 

upo' seventy year. 
An' boooks, what's boooks ? thou knaws 

thebbe naither 'ere nor theer. 



An' the gells, they hedn't naw taails, an' 

the lawyer he towd it me 
That 'is taail were soa tied up es he 

couldn't cut down a tree ! 
'Drat the trees,' says I, to be sewer I 

haates 'em, my lass. 
Fur we puts the muck o' the land an' 

they sucks the muck fro' the grass. 



An' Squire wur hallus a-smilin', an' gied 
to the tramps goin' by — 

An' all o' the wust i' the parish — wi' 
hoffens a drop in 'is eye. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE ; OR, THE ENTAIL 



515 



An' ivry darter o' Squire's hed- her awn 

ridin-erse to 'ersen, 
An' they rampaged about wi' their grooms, 

an' was 'untin' arter the men, 
An' hallus a-dallackt ^ an' dizen'd out, 

an' a-buyin' new cloathes, 
While 'e sit like a great glimmer-gowk - 

wi' 'is glasses athurt 'is noase, 
An' 'is noase sa grufted wi' snuff es it 

couldn't be scroob'd awaay, 
Fur atween 'is readin' an' writin' 'e snifft 

up a box in a daay, 
An' 'e niver runn'd arter the fox, nor 

arter the birds wi' 'is gun, 
An' 'e niver not shot one 'are, but 'e 

leaved it to Charlie 'is son. 
An' 'e niver not fish'd 'is awn ponds, but 

Charlie 'e cotch'd the pike. 
For 'e warn't not burn to the land, an' 'e 

didn't take kind to it like ; 
But I ears es 'e'd gie fur a howry ^ owd 

book thutty pound an' moor, 
An' 'e'd wrote an owd book, his awn sen, 

salknaw'd es'e'd coomto be poor ; 
An' 'e gied — I be fear'd fur to tell tha 'ow 

much — fur an owd scratted stoan, 
An' 'e digg'd up a loomp i' the land an' 

'e got a brown pot an' a boan. 
An' 'e bowt owd money, es wouldn't goa, 

wi' good gowd o' the Queen, 
An' 'e bowt little statutes all-naiikt an' 

which was a shaame to be seen ; 
But 'e niver loookt ower a bill, nor 'e 

niver not seed to owt, 
An' 'e niver knawd nowt but boooks, an' 

boooks, as thouknaws, beant nowt. 



But owd Squire's laady es long es she 

lived she kep 'em all clear. 
Thaw es long es she lived I niver hed 

none of 'er darters 'ere ; 
But arter she died we was all es one, the 

childer an' me. 
An' sarvints runn'd in an' out, an' offens 

we hed 'em to tea. 
Lawk ! 'ow I laugh'd when the. lasses 'ud 

talk o' their Missis's waiiys, 

1 Overdrest in gay colours. 2 Owl. 

3 Filthy. "" 



An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses. — I'll 
tell tha some o' these daays. 

Hoanly Miss Annie were saw stuck oop, 
like 'er mother afoor — 

'Er an' 'er blessed darter — they niver 
darken'd my door. 



An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled till 'e'd 

gotten a fright at last. 
An' 'e calls fur 'is son, fur the 'turney's 

letters they foller'd sa fast ; 
But Squire wur afear'd o' 'is son, an' 'e 

says to 'im, meek as a mouse, 
' Lad, thou mun cut off thy taail, or the 

gells 'ull goa to the 'Ouse, 
Fur I finds es I be that i' debt, es I 'oiips 

es thou'U 'elp me a bit. 
An' if thou'll 'gree to cut off thy taail I 

may saave mysen yit.' 



But Charlie 'e sets back 'is ears, an' 'e 
swears, an' 'e says to 'im ' Noa. 

Fve gotten the 'staate by the taail an' 
be dang'd if I iver let goa ' 



Coom ! coom ! feyther,' 'e says. 



ihy 



shouldn't thy boooks be sowd ? 
I hears es soom o' thy boooks mebbe 
worth their weight i' gowd.' 



Heaps an' heaps o' boooks, I ha' see'd 

'em, belong'd to the Squire, 
But the lasses 'ed teard out leaves i' the 

middle to kindle the fire ; 
Sa moast on 'is owd big boooks fetch'd 

nigh to nowt at the saale. 
And Squire were at Charlie agean to git 

'im to cut off 'is taail. 

XII 

Ya wouldn't find Charlie's likes — 'e were 

that outdacious at 'oam. 
Not thaw ya went fur to raake out Hell 

wi' a small-tooth coamb — 
Droonk wi' the Quoloty's wine, an' droonk 

wi' the farmer's aale. 
Mad wi' the lasses an' all — an' 'e wouldn't 

cut off the taail. 



Si6 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL 



Thou's coom'd oop by the beck ; and a 

thurn be a-grawin' theer, 
I niver ha seed it sa white wi' the Ma'ay 

es I see'd it to-year — 
Theerabouts Charlie joompt — and it gied 

me a scare tother night, 
Fur I thowt it wur CharUe's ghoast i' 

the derk, fur it loookt sa white. 
' Billy,' says 'e, * hev a joomp ! ' — thaw 

the banks o' the beck be sa high, 
Fur he ca'd 'is 'erse Billy-rough-un, thaw 

niver a hair wur awry ; 
But Billy fell bakkuds o' Charlie, an' 

Charlie 'e brok 'is neck, 
Sa theer wur a hend o' the taail, fur 'e 

lost 'is taail i' the beck. 



Sa 'is taail wur lost an' 'is boooks wur 

gone an' 'is boy wur dead, 
An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled, but 'e 

niver not lift oop 'is 'ead : 
Hallus a soft un Squire ! an' 'e smiled, 

fur 'e hedn't naw friend, 
Sa feyther an' son was buried togither, 

an' this wur the hend. 



An' Parson as hesn't the call, nor the 

mooney, but hes the pride, 
'E reads of a sewer an' sartan 'oap o' the 

tother side ; 
But I beant that sewer es the Lord, how- 

siver they praay'd an' praay'd. 
Lets them inter 'eaven easy es leaves their 

debts to be paaid. 
Siver the mou'ds rattled down upo' poor 

owd Squire i' the wood. 
An' I cried along wi' the gells, fur they 

weant niver coom to naw good. 



Fur Molly the long un she walkt awaay 

wi' a hofficer lad. 
An' nawbody 'card on 'er sin, sa o' coorse 

she be gone to the bad ! 
An' Lucy wur laame o' one leg, sweet- 

'arts she niver 'ed none — 



Straange an' unheppen ^ Miss Lucy ! we 

naamed her ' Dot an' gav/ one ! ' 
An' Hetty wur weak i' the hattics, wi'out 

ony harm i' the legs, 
An' the fever 'ed baaked Jinny's 'ead as 

bald as one o' them heggs, 
An' Nelly wur up fro' the craadle as big 

i' the mouth as a cow. 
An' saw she mun hammergrate,^ lass, or 

she weant git a maate onyhow ! 
An' es for Miss Annie es call'd me afoor 

my awn foalks to my faace 
' A hignorant village wife as 'ud hev to 

be larn'd her awn plaace,' 
Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes now 

be a-grawin' sa howd, 
I knaws that mooch o' shea, es it beant 

not fit to be towd ! 

XVII ■ 

Sa I didn't not taake it kindly ov owd . j 

Miss Annie to saay ;, 

Es I should be talkin agean 'em, es soon ;,{ 

es they went awaay, ;1 

Fur, lawks ! 'ow I cried when they went, 'i 

an' our Nelly she gied me 'er 'and, " 
Fur Fd ha done owt for the Squire an' 'is ',' 

gells es belong'd to the land ; 
Boooks, es I said afoor, thebbe neyther 

'ere nor theer ! 
But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' heggs fui 

huppuds o' twenty year. 



An' they hallus paaid what I hax'd, sa I 

hallus deal'd wi' the Hall, • 
An' they knaw'd what butter wur, an' they 

knaw'd what a hegg wur an' all ; 
Hugger - mugger they lived, but they 

wasn't that easy to please. 
Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they 

laaid big heggs es tha seeas ; 
An' I niver puts saame ^ i' viy butter, 

they does it at Willis's farm, 
Taaste another drop o' the wine — tweant 

do tha naw harm. 

1 Ungainly, awkward. 
2 Emigrate. 3 Lard. 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 



517 



Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taiiil in 'is 

'and, an' owd Squire's gone ; 
I heard 'im a roomlin' by, but arter my 

nightcap wur on ; 
Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur he 

coom'd last night sa laate — 
Pluksh ! ! ! ^ the hens i' the peas ! why 

didn't tha hesp the gaate ? 



IN THE CHILDREN'S 
HOSPITAL 



Our doctor had call'd in another, I never 

had seen him before, 
But he sent a chill to my heart when I 

saw him come in at the door, 
Fresh from the surgery-schools of France 

and of other lands — 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big 

merciless hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but 

they said too of him 
He was happier using the knife than in 

trying to save the limb, 
And that I can well believe, for he look'd 

so coarse and so red, 
I could think he was one of those who 

would break their jests on the dead, 
And mangle the living dog that had loved 

him and fawn'd at his knee — 
Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that 

ever such things should be ! 



Here was a boy — I am sure that some of 

our children would die 
But for the voice of Love, and the smile, 

and the comforting eye — 
Here was a boy in the ward, every bone 

seem'd out of its place — 
Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was all 

but a hopeless case : 

1 A cry accompanied by a clapping of hands to 
scare trespassing fowl. 



And he handled him gently enough ; but 

his voice and his face were not kind, 
And it was but a hopeless case, he had 

seen it and made up his mind. 
And he said to me roughly 'The lad will 

need little more of your care.' 
'All the more need,' I told him, 'to seek 

the Lord Jesus in prayer ; 
They are all his children here, and I pray 

for them all as my own ' : 
But he turn'd to me, ' Ay, good woman, 

can prayer set a broken bone ? ' 
Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I 

know that I heard him say 
' All very well — but the good Lord Jesus 

has had his day.' 



Had? has it come? It has onlydawn'd. 

It will come by and by. 
O how could I serve in the wards if the 

hope of the world were a lie ? 
How could I bear with the sights and the 

loathsome smells of disease 
But that He said ' Ye do it to me, when 

ye do it to these ' ? 



So he went. And we past to this ward 

where the younger children are laid : 
Here is the cot of our orphan, our dar- 
ling, our meek little maid ; 
Empty you see just now ! We have lost 

her who loved her so much — 
Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive 

plant to the touch ; 
Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often 

moved me to tears, 
Hers was the gratefullest heart I have 

found in a child of her years — 
Nay you remember our Emmie ; you used 

to send her the flowers ; 
How she would smile at 'em, play with 

'em, talk to 'em hours after hours ! 
They that can wander at will where the 

works of the Lord are reveal'd 
Little guess what joy can be got from a 

cowslip out of the field ; 
Flowers to these 'spirits in prison' are all 

they can know of the spring. 



5i8 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE 



They freshen and sweeten the wards Uke 

the waft of an Angel's wing ; 
And she lay with a flower in one hand and 

her thin hands crost on her breast — 
Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, 

and we thought her at rest, 
Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor 

said ' Poor little dear, 
Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll 

never live thro' it, I fear.' 



I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as 
far as the head of the stair. 

Then I return'd to the ward ; the child 
didn't see I was there. 



Never since I was nurse, had I been so 

grieved and so vext ! 
Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd 

from her cot to the next, 
' He says I shall never live thro' it, O 

Annie, what shall I do ? ' 
Annie consider'd. 'If I,' said the wise 

little Annie, ' was you, 
I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to 

help me, for, Emmie, you see, 
It's all in the picture there: "Little 

children should come to me."' 
(Meaning the print that you gave us, I 

find that it always can please 
Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with 

children about his knees.) 
'Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, 'but then 

if I call to the Lord, 
How should he know that it's me ? such 

a lot of beds in the ward ! ' 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she 

consider'd and said : 
' Emmie, you put out your arms, and you 

leave 'em outside on the bed — 
The Lord has so vnich to see to ! but, 

Emmie, you tell it him plain. 
It's the little girl with her arms lying out 

on the counterpane.' 



I had sat three nights by the child — I 
could not watch her for four — 



My brain had begun to reel — I felt I 

could do it no more. 
That was my sleeping-night, but I thought 

that it never would pass. 
There was a thunderclap once, and a 

clatter of hail on the glass, 
And there was a phantom cry that I heard 

as I tost about. 
The motherless bleat of a lamb in the 

storm and the darkness without ; 
My sleep was broken besides with dreams 

of the dreadful knife 
And fears for our delicate Emmie who 

scarce would escape with her life ; 
Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd 

she stood by me and smiled, 
And the doctor came at his hour, and we 

went to see to the child. 

VIII 

He had brought his ghastly tools : we 

believed her asleep again — 
Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out 

on the counterpane ; 
Say that His day is done ! Ah why should 

we care what they say ? 
The Lord of the children had heard her, 

and Emmie had past away. 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE 
PRINCESS ALICE 

Dead Princess, living Power, if that, 

which lived 
True life, live on — and if the fatal kiss, 
Born of true life and love, divorce thee 

not 
From earthly love and life — if v/hat we call 
The spirit flash not all at once from out 
This shadow into Substance — then perhaps 
The mellow'd murmur of the people's 

praise 
From thine own State, and all our 

breadth of realm. 
Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds 

in light, 
Ascends to thee ; and this March morn 

that sees 
Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange-bloom 



THE DEFENCE OF LUC KNOW 



519 



Break thro' the yews and cypress of thy 

grave, 
And thine Imperial mother smile again, 
May send one ray to thee ! and who can 

tell— 
Thou — England's England- loving daugh- 
ter — thou 
Dying so English thou wouldst have her 

flag 
Borne on thy coffin — where is he can 

swear 
But that some broken gleam from our 

poor earth 
May touch thee, while remembering thee, 

Hay 
At thy pale feet this ballad of tlie deeds 
Of England, and her banner in the East ? 

THE DEFENCE OF 
LUCKNOW 



Banner of England, not for a season, O 

banner of Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to 

the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when we 

had rear'd thee on high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly 

siege of Luck now — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but 

ever we raised thee anew, 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Frail were the works that defended the 

hold that we held with our lives — 
Women and children among us, God help 

them, our children and wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days 

or for twenty at most. 
'Never surrender, I charge you, but 

every man die at his post ! ' 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our 

Lawrence the best of the brave : 
Cold were his brows when we kiss'd 

him — we laid him that night in 

his grave. 



' Every man die at his post ! ' and there 

hail'd on our houses and halls 
Death from their rifle -bullets, and death 

from their cannon-balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and 

death at our slight barricade. 
Death while we stood with the musket, and 

death while we stoopt to the spade. 
Death to the dying, and wounds to the 

wounded, for often there fell. 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' 

it, their shot and their shell, 
Death — for their spies were among us, their 

marksmen were told of our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the 

brain that could think for the rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and 

bullets would rain at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the 

rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from 

over the breadth of a street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque and 

the palace, and death in the ground ! 
Mine? yes, amine! Countermine! down, 

down ! and creep thro' the hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand ! you can hear 

him — the murderous mole ! 
Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point of 

the pickaxe be thro' ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer and 

nearer again than before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the 

dark pioneer is no more ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew ! 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 

times, and it chanced on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground 

thunderclap echo'd away. 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur like 

so many fiends in their hell — 
Cannon - shot, musket - shot, volley on 

volley, and yell upon yell — 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad 

enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? Out 

yonder. Guard the Redan ! 



520 



THE DEFENCE OF LUC KNOW 



Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the 
Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 

Surging and swaying all round us, as 
ocean on every side 

Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 
daily devour'd by the tide — 

So many thousands that if they be bold 
enough, who shall escape ? 

Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall 
know we are soldiers and men ! 

Ready ! take aim at their leaders — their 
masses are gapp'd with our grape — 

Backward they reel hke the wave, like 
the wave flinging forward again, 

Flying and foil'd at the last by the hand- 
ful they could not subdue ; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 



Handful of men as we were, we were 

English in heart and in limb. 
Strong with the strength of the race to 

command, to obey, to endure. 
Each of us fought as if hope for the garri- 
son hung but on him ; 
Still — could we watch at all points ? we 

were every day fewer and fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but only 

a whisper that past : 
' Children and wives — if the tigers leap 

into the fold unawares — 
Every man die at his post — and the foe 

may outlive us at last — 
Better to fall by the hands that they love, 

than to fall into theirs ! ' 
Roar upon roar in a moment two mines 

by the enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and 

our poor palisades. 
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure 

that your hand be as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed 

are your flank fusillades — • 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the 

ladders to which they had clung, 
Twice from the ditch where they shelter 

we drive them with hand-grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Then on another wild morning another 

wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or 

twelve good paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there 

from the light of the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying 

out : ' Follow me, follow me ! ' 
Mark him — ^he falls ! then another, and 

him too, and down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who 

can tell but the traitors had won ? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an em- 
brasure ! make way for the gun ! ^ 
Now double-charge it with grape ! It is ■ 

charged and we fire, and they 

run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the 

dark face have his due ! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who 

fought with us, faithful and few, 
Fought with the bravest among us, and 

drove them, and smote them, and 

slew, 
That ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner in India blew. 



Men will forget what we suffer and not 

what we do. We cian fight ! |J 

But to be soldier all day and be sentinel ^ 

all thro' the night — 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 

their lying alarms. 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 

shoutings and soundings to arms, 
Ever the labour of fifty that had to be 

done by five. 
Ever the marvel among us that one should 

be left alive. 
Ever the day with its traitorous death 

from the loopholes around, 
Ever the night with its cofifinless corpse 

to be laid in the ground. 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge 

of cataract skies. 
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite 

torment of flies, 



SI/? JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM 



521 



Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing 

over an English field, 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 

that would not be heal'd, 
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful- 
pitiless knife, — 
Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never 

could save us a life. 
Valour of delicate women who tended the 

hospital bed, 
Horror of women in travail among the 

dying and dead, 
Grief for our perishing children, and 

never a moment for grief. 
Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering 

hopes of relief, 
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd 

for all that we knew — 
Then day and night, day and night, coming 

down on the still-shatter'd walls 
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands 

of cannon-balls — 
But ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 

FII 

Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true what 

was told by the scout, 
Outram and Havelock breaking their way 

through the fell mutineers ? 
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing 

again in our ears ! 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubi- 
lant shout, 
Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer 

with conquering cheers, 
Sick from the hospital echo them, women 

and children come out. 
Blessing the wholesome white faces of 

Havelock's good fusileers. 
Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the 

Highlander wet with their tears ! 
Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are 

saved ! — is it you ? is it you ? 
Saved by the valour of Havelock, saved 

by the blessing of Heaven ! 
* Hold it for fifteen days ! ' we have held 

it for eighty-seven ! 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old 

banner of England blew. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, 
LORD COBHAM 

(IN WALES) 

My friend should meet me somewhere 

hereabout 
To take me to that hiding in the hills. 

I have broke their cage, no gilded one, 
I trow — 

I read no more the prisoner's mute wail 

Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless stone ; 

I find hard rocks, hard life, hard cheer, or 
none, 

For I am emptier than a friar's brains ; 

But God is with me in this wilderness. 

These wet black passes and foam-churn- 
ing chasms — 

And God's free air, and hope of better 
things. 

I would I knew their speech ; not now 

to glean, 
Not now — I hope to do it — some scatter'd 

ears. 
Some ears for Christ in this wild field of 

Wales — 
But, bread, merely for bread. This 

tongue that wagg'd 
They said with such heretical arrogance 
Against the proud archbishop Arundel — 
So much God's cause was fluent in it — is 

here 
But as a Latin Bible to the crowd ; 
' Bara ! ' — what use? The Shepherd, 

when I speak. 
Vailing a sudden eyelid with his hard 
' Dim Saesneg ' passes, wroth at things 

of old- 
No fault of mine. Had he God's word 

in Welsh 
He might be kindlier : happily come the 

day ! 

Not least art thou, thou little Beth- 
lehem 
In Judah, for in thee the Lord was born ; 
Nor thou in Britain, little Lutterworth, 
Least, for in thee the word was born again. 



522 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM 



Heaven - sweet Evangel, ever - living 


By firth and loch thy silver sister grow,i 


word, 


That were my rose, there my allegiance 


Who whilome spakest to the South in 


due. 


Greek 


Self- starved, they say — nay, murder'd. 


About the soft Mediterranean shores. 


doubtless dead. 


And then in Latin to the Latin crowd, 


So to this king I cleaved : my friend was 


As good need was — thou hast come to 


he. 


talk our isle. 


Once my fast friend : I would have given 


Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, 


my life 


Must learn to use the tongues of all the 


To help his own from scathe, a thousand 


world. 


lives 


Yet art thou thine own witness that thou 


To save his soul. He might have come 


bringest 


to learn 


Not peace, a sword, a fire. 


Our Wiclif's learning : but the worldly 


What did he say. 


Priests 


My frighted Wiclif- preacher whom I 


Who fear the king's hard common-sense 


crost 


should find 


In flying hither ? that one night a crowd 


What rotten piles uphold their mason - 


Throng'd the waste field about the city 


work. 


gates : 


Urge him to foreign war. O had he 


The king was on them suddenly with a 


wiU'd 


host. 


I might have stricken a lusty stroke for 


Why there? they came to hear their 


him. 


preacher. Then 


But he would not ; far liever led my 


Some cried on Cobham, on the good 


friend 


Lord Cobham ; 


Back to the pure and universal church, 


Ay, for they love me ! but the king — nor 


But he would not : whether that heirless 


voice 


flaw 


Nor finger raised against him — took and 


In his throne's title make him feel so 


hang'd. 


frail. 


Took, hang'd and burnt — how many — 


He leans on Antichrist ; or that his mind. 


thirty-nine — 


So quick, so capable in soldiership. 


Call'd it rebellion — hang'd, poor friends, 


In matters of the faith, alas the while ! 


as rebels 


More worth than all the kingdoms of 


And burn'd alive as heretics ! for your 


this world. 


Priest 


Runs in the rut, a coward to the Priest. 


Labels — to take the king along with 




him — 


Burnt — good Sir Roger Acton, my 


All heresy, treason : but to call men 


dear friend ! 


traitors 


Burnt too, my faithful preacher, Beverley ! 


May make men traitors. 


Lord give thou power to thy two wit- 


Rose of Lancaster, 


nesses ! 


Red in thy birth, redder with household 


Lest the false faith make merry over 


war, 


them ! 


Now reddest with the blood of holy men, 


Two — nay but thirty-nine have risen and 


Redder to be, red rose of Lancaster — 


stand, 


If somewhere in the North, as Rumour 


Dark with the smoke of human sacrifice, 


sang 


Before thy light, and cry continually — 


Fluttering the hawks of this crown-lust- 


Cry — against whom ? 


ing line — 


1 Richard 11. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COB HAM 



523 



Him, who should bear the' sword 
Of Justice — what ! the kingly, kindly boy ; 
Wlio took the world so easily heretofore. 
My boon companion, tavern-fellow — him 
Who gibed and japed — in many a merry 

tale 
That shook our sides — at Pardoners, 

Summoners, 
Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries 
And nunneries, when the wild hour and 

the wine 
Had set the wits aflame. 

Harry of Monmouth, 
Or Amurath of the East ? 

Better to sink 
Thy fleurs-de-lys in slime again, and fling 
Thy royalty back into the riotous fits 
Of wine and harlotry' — thy shame, and 

mine, 
Thy comrade — than to persecute the 

Lord, 
And play the Saul that never will be Paul. 

Burnt, burnt ! and while this mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms our unlicensed preacher to the 

flame. 
The mitre -sanction'd harlot draws his 

clerks 
Into the suburb — their hard celibacy. 
Sworn to be veriest ice of pureness, molten 
Into adulterous living, or such crimes 
As holy Paul — a shame to speak of 

them — 
Among the heathen — 

Sanctuary granted 
To bandit, thief, assassin — yea to him 
Who hacks his mother's throat — denied 

to him, 
Who finds the Saviour in his mother 

tongue. 
The Gospel, the Priest's pearl, flung 

down to swine — 
The swine, lay -men, lay- women, who 

will come, 
God willing, to outlearn the filthy friar. 
Ah rather, Lord, than that thy Gospel, 

meant 
To course and range thro' all the world, 

should be 



Tether'd to these dead pillars of the 

Church — 
Rather than so, if thou wilt have it so, 
Burst vein, snap sinew, and crack heart, 

and life 
Pass in the fire of Babylon ! but how 

long, 
O Lord, how long ! 

My friend should meet me here. 
Here is the copse, the fountain and — a 

Cross ! 
To thee, dead wood, I bow not head nor 

knees. 
Rather to thee, green boscage, work of 

God, 
Black holly, and white-flower'd wayfar- 
ing-tree ! 
Rather to thee, thou living water, drawn 
By this good Wiclif mountain down from 

heaven, 
And speaking clearly in thy native 

tongue — 
No Latin — He that thirsteth, come and 

drink ! 

Eh ! how I anger'd Arundel asking me 
To worship Holy Cross ! I spread mine 

arms, 
God's work, I said, a cross of flesh and 

blood 
And holier. That was heresy. (My good 

friend 
By this time should be with me.) 

' Images ? ' 
' Bury them as God's truer images 
Are daily buried.' * Heresy. — Penance ?' 

' Fast, 
Plairshirt and scourge — nay, let a man 

repent. 
Do penance in his heart, God hears him.' 

' Heresy — 
Not shriven, not saved ? ' * What profits 

an ill Priest 
Between me and my God ? I would not 

spurn 
Good counsel of good friends, but shrive 

myself 
No, not to an Apostle.' ' Heresy.' 
(My friend is long in coming.) ' Pil- 
I grimages ? ' 



524 



SIR JOHN OLD CASTLE, LORD COB HAM 



' Drink, bagpipes, revelling, devil's- 

dances, vice. 
The poor man's money gone to fat the 

friar. 
Who reads of begging saints in Scripture ?' 

— ' Heresy ' — 
(Hath he been here — not found me — gone 

again ? 
Have I mislearnt our place of meeting ?) 

' Bread- 
Bread left after the blessing ? ' how they 

stared, 
That was their main test -question — 

glared at me ! 
' He veil'd Himself in flesh, and now He 

veils 
His flesh in bread, body and bread 

together. ' 
Then rose the howl of all the cassock'd 

wolves, 
' No bread, no bread. God's body ! ' 

Archbishop, Bishop, 
Priors, Canons, Friars, bellringers, 

Parish-clerks — 
' No bread, no bread ! ' — ' Authority of 

the Church, 
Power of the keys ! '—Then I, God help 

me, I 
So mock'd, so spurn'd, so baited two 

whole days — 
I lost myself and fell from evenness, 
And rail'd at all the Popes, that ever since 
Sylvester shed the venom of world-wealth 
Into the church, had only prov'n them- 
selves 
Poisoners, murderers. Well — God par- 
don all — 
Me, them, and all the world — yea, that 

proud Priest, 
That mock -meek mouth of utter Anti- 
christ, 
That traitor to King Richard and the 

truth. 
Who rose and doom'd me to the fire. 

Amen ! 
Nay, I can burn, so that the Lord of life 
Be by me in my death. 

Those three ! the fourth 
Was like the Son of God ! Not burnt 

were they. 



On them the smell of burning had not 

past. 
That was a miracle to convert the king. 
These Pharisees, this Caiaphas- Arundel 
What miracle could turn ? He here 

again, 
He thwarting their traditions of Him- 
self, 
He would be found a heretic to Himself, 
And doom'd to burn alive. 

So, caught, I burn. 
Burn ? heathen men have borne as much 

as this. 
For freedom, or the sake of those they 

loved. 
Or some less cause, some cause far less 

than mine ; 
For every other cause is less than mine. 
The moth will singe her wings, and 

singed return. 
Her love of light quenching her fear of 

pain — 
How now, my soul, we do not heed the 

fire? 
Faint - hearted ? tut ! — faint - stomach'd ! 

faint as I am, 
God willing, I will burn for Him. 

Who comes? 
A thousand marks are set upon my 

head. 
Friend ? — foe perhaps — a tussle for it 

then ! 
Nay, but my friend. Thou art so well 

disguised, 
I knew thee not. Hast thou brought 

bread with thee ? 
I have not broken bread for fifty hours. 
None ? I am damn'd already by the 

Priest 
For holding there was bread where bread 

was none — 
No bread. My friends await me yonder ? 

Yes. 
Lead on then. Up the mountain ? Is 

it far ? 
Not far. Climb first and reach me down 

thy hand. 
I am not like to die for lack of bread, 
For I must live to testify by fire.^ 
1 He was burnt on Christmas Day, 1417 



COLUMBUS 



525 



COLUMBUS 

Chains, my good lord : in your raised 

brows I read 
Some wonder at our chamber ornaments. 
We brought this iron from our isles of 

gold. 

Does the king know you deign to visit 

him 
Whom once he rose from off his throne 

to greet 
Before his people, like his brother king ? 
I saw your face that morning in the crowd. 

At Barcelona — tho' you were not then 
So, bearded. Yes. The city deck'd 

herself 
To meet me, roar'd my name ; the king, 

the queen 
Bad me be seated, speak, and tell them all 
The story of my voyage, and while I 

spoke 
The crowd's roar fell as at the ' Peace, 

be still ! ' 
And when I ceased to speak, the king, 

the queen, 
Sank from their thrones, and melted into 

tears. 
And knelt, and lifted hand and heart and 

voice 
In praise to God who led me thro' the 

waste. 
And then the great ' Laudamus ' rose to 

heaven. 

Chains for the Admiral of the Ocean I 

chains 
For him who gave a new heaven, a new 

earth, 
As holy John had prophesied of me. 
Gave glor}' and more empire to the kings 
Of Spain than all their battles ! chains 

for him 
Who push'd his prows into the setting sun. 
And made West East, and sail'd the 

Dragon's mouth. 
And came upon the Mountain of the 

World, 
And saw the rivers roll from Paradise ! 



Chains ! we are Admirals of the Ocean, 

we. 
We and our sons for ever. Ferdinand 
Hath sign'd it and our Floly Catholic 

queen — 
Of the Ocean — of the Indies — Admirals 

we — 
Our title, which we never mean to yield, 
Our guerdon not alone for what we did. 
But our amends for all we might have 

done — 
The vast occasion of our stronger life — 
Eighteen long years of waste, seven in 

your Spain, 
Lost, showing courts and kings a truth 

the babe 
Will suck in with his milk hereafter — 

earth 
A sphere. 

Were you at Salamanca ? No. 

We fronted there the learning of all 
Spain, 

All their cosmogonies, their astronomies : 

Guess-work they guess'd it, but the 
golden guess 

Is morning-star to the full round of truth. 

No guess-work ! I was certain of my goal ; 

Some thought it heresy, but that would 
. not hold. 

King David call'd the heavens a hide, a 
tent 

Spread over earth, and so this earth was 
flat: 

Some cited old Lactantius : could it be 

That trees grew downward, rain fell up- 
ward, men 

Walk'd like the fly on ceilings ? and be- 
sides, 

The great Augustine wrote that none 
could breathe 

Within the zone of heat ; so might there 
be 

Two Adams, two mankinds, and that 
was clean 

Against God's word : thus was I beaten 
back, 

And chiefly to my sorrow by the Church, 

And thought to turn my face from Spain, 
appeal 



526 



COLUMBUS 



Once more to France or England ; but 

our Queen 
Recall'd me, for at last their Highnesses 
Were half-assured this earth might be a 

sphere. 

All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, 
All glory to the mother of our Lord, 
And Holy Church, from whom I never 

swerved 
Not even by one hair's-breadth of heresy. 
I have accomplish'd what I came to do. 

Not yet — not all — last night a dream — 

I sail'd 
On my first voyage, harass'd by the frights 
Of my first crew, their curses and their 

groans. 
The great flame-banner borne by Tene- 

riffe. 
The compass, like an old friend false at last 
In our most need, appall'd them, and the 

wind 
Still westward, and the weedy seas — at 

length 
The landbird, and the branch with berries 

on it. 
The carven staff — and last the light, the 

light 
On Guanahani ! but I changed the name ; 
San Salvador I call'd it ; and the light 
Grew as I gazed, and brought out a broad 

sky 
Of dawning over — not those alien palms, 
The marvel of that fair new nature — not 
That Indian isle, but our most ancient 

East 
Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw 
The glory of the Lord flash up, and beat 
Thro' all the homely town from jasper, 

sapphire, 
Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius. 
Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, 
Jacynth, and amethyst — and those twelve 

gates, 
Pearl — and I woke, and thought — death 

— I shall die — 
I am written in the Lamb's own Book 

of Life 
To walk within the glory of the Lord 



Sunless and moonless, utter light — but 

no ! 
The Lord had sent this bright, strange 

dream to me 
To mind me of the secret vow I made 
When Spain was waging war against 

the Moor — 
I strove myself with Spain against the 

Moor. 
There came two voices from the Sepul- 
chre, 
Two friars crying that if Spain should 

oust 
The Moslem from her limit, he, the fierce 
Soldan of Eg}'pt, would break down and 

raze 
The blessed tomb of Christ ; whereon I 

vow'd 
That, if our Princes harken'd to my 

prayer, 
Whatever wealth I brought from that new 

world 
Should, in this old, be consecrate to lead 
A new crusade against the Saracen, 
And free the Holy Sepulchre from thrall. 

Gold ? I had brought your Princes 

gold enough 
If left alone ! Being but a Genovese, 
I am handled worse than had I been a 

Moor, 
And breach'd the belting wall of Cambalu, 
And given the Great Khan's palaces to 

the Moor, 
Or clutch'd the sacred crown of Prester 

John, 
And cast it to the Moor : but had I 

brought 
From Solomon's now-recover'd Ophir all 
The gold that Solomon's navies carried 

home. 
Would that have gilded me ? Blue blood 

of Spain, 
Tho' quartering your own royal arms of 

Spain, 
I have not : blue blood and black blood 

of Spain, 
The noble and the convict of Castile, 
Howl'd me from Hispaniola ; for you 

know 



COLUMBUS 



527 



The flies at home, that ever swarm about 
And cloud the highest heads, and murmur 

down 
Truth in the distance — these outbuzz'd 

me so 
That even our prudent king, our righteous 

queen — 
I pray'd them being so calumniated 
They would commission one of weight 

and worth 
To judge between my slander'd self and 

me — 
Fonseca my main enemy at their court, 
They sent me out his tool, Bovadilla, one 
As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — 
Blockish irreverence, brainless greed — 

who sack'd 
My dwelling, seized upon my papers, 

loosed 
My captives, feed the rebels of the crov/n, 
Sold the crown-farms for all but nothing, 

gave 
All but free leave for all to work the 

mines, 
Drove me and my good brothers home in 

chains. 
And gathering ruthless gold — a single 

piece 
Weigh'd nigh four thousand Castillanos 

— so 
They tell me — weigh'd him down into the 

abysm — 
The hurricane of the latitude on him fell. 
The seas of our discovering over-roll 
Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel, 
With what was mine, came happily to the 

shore. 
There was a glimmering of God's hand. 

And God 
Hath more than glimmer'd on me. O 

my lord, 
I swear to you I heard his voice between 
The thunders in the black Veragua 

nights, 
' O soul of Httle faith, slow to believe ! 
Have I not been about thee from thy 

birth ? 
Given thee the keys of the great Ocean- 
sea? 



Set thee in light till time shall be no 

more ? 
Is it I who have deceived thee or the 

world ? 
Endure ! thou hast done so well for men, 

that men 
Cry out against thee : was it otherwise 
With mine own Son ? ' 

And more than once in days 
Of doubt and cloud and storm, when 

drowning hope 
Sank all but out of sight, I heard his 

voice, 
' Be not cast down. I lead thee by the 

hand. 
Fear not.' And I shall hear his voice 

again — 
I know that he has led me all my life, 
I am not yet too old to work his will — 
His voice again. 

Still for all that, my lord, 
I lying here bedridden and alone, 
Cast off, put by, scouted by court and 

king— 
The first discoverer starves — his followers, 

all 
Flower into fortune — our world's way — 

and I, 
Without a roof that I can call mine own, 
With scarce a coin to buy a meal withal, 
And seeing what a door for scoundrel 

scum 
I open'd to the West, thro' which the lust, 
Villany, violence, avarice, of your Spain 
Pour'd in on all those happy naked isles — 
Their kindly native princes slain or slaved, 
Their wives and children Spanish concu- 
bines. 
Their innocent hospitalities quench'd in 

blood. 
Some dead of hunger, some beneath the 

scourge, 
Some over-labour'd, some by their own 

hands, — 
Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature, 

kill 
Their babies at the breast for hate of 

Spain — 



528 



COLUMBUS 



Ah God, the harmless people whom we 

found 
In Hispaniola's island -Paradise ! 
Who took us for the very Gods from 

Heaven, 
And we have sent them very fiends from 

Hell; 
And I myself, myself not blameless, I' 
Could sometimes wish I had never led 

the way. 

Only the ghost of our great Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles on me, saying, ' Be thou com- 
forted ! 

This creedless people will be brought to 
Christ 

And own the holy governance of Rome.' 

But who could dream that we, who 

bore the Cross 
Thither, were excommunicated there. 
For curbing crimes that scandalised the 

Cross, 
By him, the Catalonian Minorite, 
Rome's Vicar in our Indies ? who believe 
These hard memorials of our truth to 

Spain 
Clung closer to us for a longer term 
Than any friend of ours at Court ? and yet 
Pardon — too harsh, unjust. I am rack'd 

with pains. 

You see that I have hung them by my 
bed. 
And I will have them buried in my grave. 

Sir, in that flight of ages which are 

God's 
Own voice to justify the dead — perchance 
Spain once the most chivalric race on 

earth, 
Spain then the mightiest, wealthiest realm 

on earth, 
So made by me, may seek to unbury me. 
To lay me in some shrine of this old Spain, 
Or in that vaster Spain I leave to Spain. 
Then some one standing by my grave 

will say, 
' Behold the bones of Christopher 

Colon '— 



* Ay, but the chains, what do they mean 

— the chains ? ' — 
I sorrow for that kindly child of Spain 
Who then will have to answer, ' These 

same chains 
Bound these same bones back thro' the 

Atlantic sea, 
Which he unchain'd for all the world to 

come.' 

O Queen of Heaven who seest the souls 

in Hell 
And purgatory, I suffer all as much 
As they do — for the moment. Stay, my 

son 
Is here anon : my son will speak for me 
Ablier than I can in these spasms that 

grind 
Bone against bone. You will not. One 

last word. 

You move about the Court, I pray you 

tell 
King Ferdinand who plays with me, that 

one, 
Whose life has been no play with him 

and his 
Hidalgos — shipwrecks, famines, fevers, 

fights. 
Mutinies, treacheries — wink'd at, and 

condoned — 
That I am loyal to him till the death. 
And ready — tho' our Holy Catholic 

Queen, 
Who fain had pledged her jewels on vcy 

first voyage. 
Whose hope was mine to spread the 

Catholic faith. 
Who wept with me when I returned in 

chains, 
Who sits beside the blessed Virgin now, 
To whom I send my prayer by night and 

day — 
She is gone — but you will tell the King, 

that I, 
Rack'd as I am with gout, and wrench'd 

with pains 
Gain'd in the service of His Highness, 

yet 
Am ready to sail forth on one last voyage. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 



529 



And readier, if the King would hear, to 

lead 
One last crusade against the Saracen, 
And save the Holy Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Going ? I am old and slighted : you 
have dared 
Somewhat perhaps in coming? my poor 

thanks ! 
I am but an alien and a Genovese. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 

(FOUNDED ON AN IRISH LEGEND. 
A.D. 700) 



I WAS the chief of the race — he had 

stricken my father dead — 
But I gather'd my fellows together, I 

swore I would strike off his head. 
Each of them look'd like a king, and was 

noble in birth as in worth. 
And each of them boasted he sprang from 

the oldest race upon earth. 
Each was as brave in the fight as the 

bravest hero of song. 
And each of them liefer had died than 

have done one another a wrong. 
He lived on an isle in the ocean — we 

sail'd on a Friday morn — 
He that had slain my father the day 

before I was born. 



And we came to the isle in the ocean, 
and there on the shore was he. 

But a sudden blast blew us out and away 
thro' a boundless sea. 



And we came to the Silent Isle that we 

never had touch'd at before. 
Where a silent ocean always broke on a 

silent shore. 
And the brooks glitter'd on in the light 

without sound, and the long 

waterfalls 



Pour'd in a thunderless plunge to the base 

of the mountain walls, 
And the poplar and cypress unshaken by 

storm flourish'd up beyond sight, 
And the pine shot aloft from the crag to 

an unbelievable height. 
And high in the heaven above it there 

flicker'd a songless lark. 
And the cock couldn't crow, and the bull 

couldn't low, and the dog couldn't 

bark. 
And round it we went, and thro' it, but 

never a murmur, a breath — 
It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it 

quiet as death, 
And we hated the beautiful Isle, for 

whenever we strove to speak 
Our voices were thinner and fainter than 

any flittermouse-shriek ; 
And the men that were mighty of tongue 

and could raise such a battle-cry 
That a hundred who heard it would rush 

on a thousand lances and die — 
O they to be dumb'd by the charm ! — so 

fluster'd with anger were they 
They almost fell on each other ; but after 

we sail'd away. 

IV 

And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we 

landed, a score of wild birds 
Cried from the topmost summit with 

human voices and words ; 
Once in an hour they cried, and whenever 

their voices peal'd 
The steer fell down at the plow and the 

harvest died from the field. 
And the men dropt dead in the valleys 

and half of the cattle went lame. 
And the roof sank in on the hearth, and 

the dwelling broke into flame ; 
And the shouting of these wild birds ran 

into the hearts of my crew. 
Till they shouted along with the shout- 
ing and seized one another and 

slew ; 
But I drew them the one from the other ; 

I saw that we could not stay, 
And we left the dead to the birds -ind we 

sail'd with our wounded away. 
2 M 



530 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 



And we came to the Isle of Flowers : 

their breath met us out on the seas, 
For the Spring and the middle Summer 

sat each on the lap of the breeze ; 
And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, 

and the dark-blue clematis, clung, 
And Starr 'd with a myriad blossom the 

long convolvulus hung ; 
And the topmost spire of the mountain 

was lilies in lieu of snow, 
And the lilies like glaciers winded down, 

running out below 
Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, the 

blaze of gorse, and the blush 
Of millions of roses that sprang without 

leaf or a thorn from the bush ; 
And the whole isle -side flashing down 

from the peak without ever a tree 
Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky 

to the blue of the sea ; 
And we roll'd upon capes of crocus and 

vaunted our kith and our kin. 
And we wallow'd in beds of lilies, and 

chanted the triumph of Finn, 
Till each like a golden image was pollen'd 

from head to feet 
And each was as dry as a cricket, with 

thirst in the middle-day heat. 
Blossom and blossom, and promise of 

blossom, but never a fruit ! 
And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we 

hated the isle that was mute, 
And we tore up the flowers by the million 

and flung them in bight and bay. 
And we left but a naked rock, and in 

anger we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Fruits : all 

round from the cliffs and the capes, 
Purple or amber, dangled a hundred 

fathom of grapes. 
And the warm melon lay like a little sun 

on the tawny sand. 
And the fig ran up from the beach and 

rioted over the land, 
And the mountain arose like a jewell'd 

throne thro' the fragrant air. 



Glowing with all-colour'd plums and with 

golden masses of pear. 
And the crimson and scarlet of berries 

that flamed upon bine and vine. 
But in every berry and fruit was the 

poisonous pleasure of wine ; 
And the peak of the mountain was apples, 

the hugest that ever were seen, 
And they prest, asthe^grew, on each other, 

with hardly a leaflet between, 
And all of them redder than rosiest health 

or than utterest shame, 
And setting, when Even descended, the 

very sunset aflame ; 
And we stay'd three days, and we gorged 

and we madden'd, till every one ( 

drew 
His sword on his fellow to slay him, and 

ever they struck and they slew ; 
And myself, I had eaten but sparely, and 

fought till I sunder'd the fray. 
Then I bad them remember my father's 

death, and we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Fire : we were 

lured by the light from afar, 
For the peak sent up one league of fire 

to the Northern Star ; 
Lured by the glare and the blare, but 

scarcely could stand upright. 
For the whole isle shudder'd and shook 

like a man in a mortal affright ; 
We were giddy besides with the fruits we 

had gorged, and so crazed that at 

last 
There were some leap'd into the fire ; 

and away we sail'd, and we past 
Over that undersea isle, where the water 

is clearer than air : 
Down we look'd : what a garden ! O 

bliss, what a Paradise there ! 
Towers of a happier time, low down in 

a rainbow deep 
Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal 

sleep ! 
And three of the gentlest and best of my 

people, whate'er I could say. 
Plunged head down in the sea, and the 

Paradise trembled away. 



TFIE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 



531 



And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where 

the heavens lean low on the land, 
And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter'd 

o'er us a sunbright hand. 
Then it open'd and dropt at the side of 

each man, as he rose from his 

rest, 
Bread enough for his need till the labour- 
less day dipt under the West ; 
And we wander'd about it and thro' it, 

O never was time so good ! 
And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and 

the boast of our ancient blood, 
And we gazed at the wandering wave as 

we sat by the gurgle of springs, 
And we chanted the songs of the Bards 

and the glories of fairy kings ; 
But at length we began to be weary, to 

sigh, and to stretch and yawn. 
Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the 

sunbright hand of the dawn, 
For there was not an enemy near, but the 

whole green Isle was our own. 
And we took to playing at ball, and we 

took to throwing the stone. 
And we took to playing at battle, but 

that was a perilous play, 
For the passion of battle was in us, we 

slew and we sail'd away. 



And we past to the Isle of Witches and 

heard their musical cry — 
' Come to us, O come, come ' in the 

stormy red of a sky 
Dashing the fires and the shadows of 

dawn on the beautiful shapes. 
For a wild witch naked as heaven stood 

on each of the loftiest capes. 
And a hundred ranged on the rock like 

white sea-birds in a row. 
And a hundred gamboll'd and pranced 

on the wrecks in the sand below, 
And a hundred splash'd from the ledges, 

and bosom'd the burst of the 

spray, 
But I knew we should fall on each other, 

and hastily sail'd away. 



X 

And we came in an evil time to the Isle 

of the Double Towers, 
One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved 

all over with flowers. 
But an earthquake always moved in the 

hollows under the dells. 
And they shock'd on each other and butted 

each other with clashing of bells. 
And the daws flew out of the Towers and 

jangled and wrangled in vain. 
And the clash and boom of the bells rang 

into the heart and the brain, 
Till the passion of battle was on us, and 

all took sides with the Towers, 
There were some for the clean-cut stone, 

there were more for the carven 

flowers. 
And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd 

over us all the day. 
For the one half slew the other, and after 

we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of a Saint who 

had sail'd with St. Brendan of 

yore. 
He had lived ever since on the Isle and 

his winters were fifteen score, 
And his voice was low as from other 

worlds, and his eyes were sweet, 
And his white hair sank to his heels and 

his white beard fell to his feet. 
And he spake to me, ' O Maeldune, let 

be this purpose of thine ! 
Remember the words of the Lord when 

he told us " Vengeance is mine ! " 
His fathers have slain thy fathers in war 

or in single strife. 
Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each 

taken a life for a life, 
Thy father had slain his father, how long 

shall the murder last ? 
Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer 

the Past to be Past.' 
And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard and 

we pray'd as we heard him pray. 
And the Holy man he assoil'd us, and 

sadly we sail'd away. 



532 



DE PRO FUND IS 



And we came to the Isle we were blown 

from, and there on the shore was he, 
The man that had slain my father. I 

saw him and let him be. 
O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, 

the strife and the sin, 
When I landed again, with a tithe of my 

men, on the Isle of Finn. 

DE PROFUNDIS 

THE TWO GREETINGS 

To H. T. August ii, 1852 
I 

Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep. 
Where all that was to be, in all that was, 
Whirl'd for a million oeons thro' the vast 
Waste dawn of multitudinous - eddying 

light- 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
Thro' all this changing world of change- 
less law, 
And every phase of ever-heightening life, 
And nine long months of antenatal gloom. 
With this last moon, this crescent — her 

dark orb 
Touch'd with earth's light — thou comest, 

darling boy ; 
Our own ; a babe in lineament and limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man ; 
Whose face and form are hers and mine 

in one, 
Indissolubly married like our love ; 
Live, and be happy in thyself, and serve 
This mortal race thy kin so well, that men 
May bless thee as we bless thee, O young 

life 
Breaking with laughter from the dark ; 

and may 
The fated channel where thy motion lives 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy 

course 
Along the years of haste and random youth 
Unshatter'd ; then full-current thro' full 

man : 



And last in kindly curves, with gentlest fall, 
By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power, 
To that last deep where we and thou are 
still. 



II 



Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
From that great deep, before our world 

begins. 
Whereon the Spirit of God moves as he 

will- 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
From that true world within the world 

we see, 
Whereof our world is but the bounding 

shore — 
Out of the deep. Spirit, out of the deep, 
With this ninth moon, that sends the 

hidden sun 
Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling 

boy. 

II 

For in the world, which is not ours, They 

said 
' Let us make man ' and that which 

should be man. 
From that one light no man can look upon, 
Drew to this shore lit by the suns and 

moons 
And all the shadows. O dear Spirit 

half-lost 
In thine own shadow and this fleshly sign 
That thou art thou — who wailest being 

born 
And banish'd into mystery, and the pain 
Of this divisible-indivisible world 
Among the numerable-innumerable 
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite -infinite 

space 
In finite-infinite Time — our mortal veil 
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite 

One, 
Wlio made thee unconceivably Thyself 
Out of His whole World-self and all in 
all— 



PREFATORY SONNET, ETC. MONTENEGRO 



533 



Live thou ! and of the grain and husk, 

the grape 
And ivyberry, choose ; and still depart 
From death to death thro' life and life, 

and find 
Nearer and ever nearer Him, who 

wrought 
Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite, 
But this main-miracle, that thou art thou, 
With power on thine own act and on the 

world. 

THE HUMAN CRY 



Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! — 

Infinite Ideality ! 

Immeasurable Reality ! 

Infinite Personality ! 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 



We feel we are nothing — for all is Thou 

and in Thee ; 
We feel we are something — that also has 

come from Thee ; 
We know we are nothing — but Thou wilt 

help us to be. 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 



PREFATORY SONNET 

TO THE 'NINETEENTH CENTURY' 

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast 
To touch all shores, now leaving to the 

skill 
Of others their old craft seaworthy still. 
Have charter'd this ; where, mindful of 

the past. 
Our true co-mates regather round the 

mast ; 
Of diverse tongue, but with a common 

will 
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil 
And crocus, to put forth and brave the 

blast ; 
For some, descending from the sacred 

peak 



Of hoar high-templed Faith, have leagued 

again 
Their lot with ours to rove the world 

about ; 
And some are wilder comrades, sworn to 

seek 
If any golden harbour be for men 
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of 

Doubt. 



TO THE REV. W. H. BROOK- 
FIELD 

Brooks, for they call'd you so that knew 

you best. 
Old Brooks, who loved so well to mouth 

my rhymes. 
How oft we two have heard St. Mary's 

chimes ! 
How oft the Cantab supper, host and 

guest. 
Would echo helpless laughter to your 

jest ! 
How oft with him we paced that walk of 

limes, 
Him, the lost light of those dawn-golden 

times, 
Who loved you well ! Now both are gone 

to rest. 
You man of humorous-melancholy mark, 
Dead of some inward agony — is it so ? 
Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past away ! 
I cannot laud this life, it looks so dark : 
S/citts '6vap — dream of a shadow, go — 
God bless you. I shall join you in a 

day. 

MONTENEGRO 

They rose to where their sovran eagle 

sails, 
They kept their faith, their freedom, on 

the height. 
Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day and 

night 
Against the Turk ; whose inroad nowhere 

scales 
Their headlong passes, but his footstep 

fails, 



534 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH 



And red with blood the Crescent reels 


French of the French, and Lord of human 


from fight 


tears ; 


Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone 


Child-lover ; Bard whose fame-lit laurels 


flight 


glance 


By thousands down the crags and thro' 


Darkening the wreaths of all that would 


the vales. 


advance. 


O smallest among peoples ! rough rock- 


Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy 


throne 


peers ; 


Of Freedom ! warriors beating back the 


Weird Titan by thy winter weight of 


swarm 


years 


Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years, 


As yet unbroken. Stormy voice of 


Great Tsernogora ! never since thine own 


France ! 


Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 


Who dost not love our England — so they 


the storm 


say; 


Has breathed a race of mightier moun- 


I know not — England, France, all man 


taineers. 


to be 




Will make one people ere man's race be 


TO VICTOR HUGO 


run : 




And I, desiring that diviner day. 


Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, 


Yield thee full thanks for thy full 


Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and 


courtesy 


fears, 


To younger England in the boy my son. 



TRANSLATIONS, ETC. 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH 

Constantinus, King of the Scots, after having 
sworn allegiance to Athelstan, allied himself with 
the Danes of Ireland under Anlaf, and invading 
England, was defeated by Athelstan and his 
brother Edmund with great slaughter at Brunan- 
burh in the year 937. 



1 Athelstan King, 
Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower and 
Baron of Barons, 
He with his brother, 
Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong 
Glory in battle, 
Slew with the sword -edge 
There by Brunanburh, 

1 I have more or less availed myself of my 
son's prose translation of this poem in the Con- 
temporary Review (November 1876). 



Brake the shield-wall, 
Hew'd the lindenwood,^ 
Hack'd the battleshield, 
Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. 

II 

Theirs was a greatness 
Got from their Grandsires — 
Theirs that so often in 
Strife with their enemies 
Struck for their hoards and their hearths 
and their homes. 



Ill 

Bow'd the spoiler, 
Bent the Scotsman, 
Fell the shipcrews 
Doom'd to the death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 

Flow'd, from when first the great 
Sun-star of morningtide, 

2 Shields of lindenwood. 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH 



535 



Lamp of the Lord God 


IX 


Lord everlasting, 
Glode over earth till the glorious creature 


Also the crafty one, 
Constantinus, 


Sank to his setting. 


Crept to his North again, 


IV 


Hoar-headed hero ! 


There lay many a man 


X 


Marr'd by the javelin. 




Men of the Northland 


Slender warrant had 


Shot over shield. 


He to be proud of 


There was the Scotsman 


The welcome of war-knives — 


Weary of war. 


He that was reft of his 


J 


Folk and his friends that had 


V 


Fallen in conflict, 


We the West-Saxons, 


Leaving his son too 


Long as the daylight 


Lost in the carnage, 


Lasted, in companies 


Mangled to morsels. 


Troubled the track of the host that we 


A youngster in war ! 


hated, 




Grimly with swords that were sharp from 


XI 


the grindstone, 


Slender reason had 


Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before 


He to be glad of 


us. 


The clash of the war-glaive — 


VI 


Traitor and trickster 


Mighty the Mercian, 


And spurner of treaties — 


Hard was his hand-play, 


He nor had Anlaf 


Sparing not any of 
Those that with Anlaf, 


With armies so broken 
A reason for bragging 


Warriors over the 


That they had the better 


• Weltering waters 


In perils of battle 


Borne in the bark's-bosom. 


On places of slaughter — 


Drew to this island : 


The struggle of standards, 


Doom'd to the death. 


The rush of the javelins, 




The crash of the charges, ^ 


VII 


The wielding of weapons — 


Five young kings put asleep by the sword - 
stroke. 


The play that they play'd with 
The children of Edward. 


Seven strong Earls of the army of Anlaf 




Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers. 


XII 


Shipmen and Scotsmen. 


Then with their nail'd prows 




Parted the Norsemen, a 


VIII 


Blood-redden'd relic of 


Then the Norse leader, 


Javelins over 


Dire was his need of it. 


The jarring breaker, the deep- 


Few were his following, 


sea billow, 


Fled to his warship : 


Shaping their way toward Dy- 


Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king 


flen 2 again. 


in it. 


Shamed in their souls. 


Saving his life on the fallow flood. 


1 Lit. 'the gathering of men.' 2 Dublin. 



536 



ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH 



Also the brethren, 
King and Atheling, 
Each in his glory, 
Went to his own in his own West-Saxon- 
land, 

Glad of the war. 



Many a carcase they left to be carrion, 
Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin — 
Left for the white -tail'd eagle to tear it, 

and 
Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend 

it, and 
Gave to the garbaging war -hawk to gorge 

it, and 
That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 



Never had huger 
Slaughter of heroes 
Slain by the sword-edge — 
Such as old writers 
Have writ of in histories — 
Hapt in this isle, since 
Up from the East hither 
Saxon and Angle from 
Over the broad billow 
Broke into Britain with 
Haughty war-workers who 
Harried the Welshman, when 
Earls that were lured by the 
Hunger of glory gat 
Hold of the land. 

ACHILLES OVER THE 
TRENCH 

Iliad, xvili. 202 

So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. 
Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus ; and 

round 
The warrior's puissant shoulders Pallas 

flung 
Her fringed aegis, and around his head 
The glorious goddess wreath'd a golden 

cloud, 



And from it lighted an all - shining 

flame. 
As when a smoke from a city goes to 

heaven 
Far off from out an island girt by foes, 
All day the men contend in grievous 

war 
From their own city, but with set of 

sun 
Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the 

glare 
Flies streaming, if perchance the neigh- 
bours round 
May see, and sail to help them in the 

war ; 
So from his head the splendour went to 

heaven. 
From wall to dyke he stept, he stood, 

nor join'd 
The Achseans — honouring his wise 

mother's word — 
There standing, shouted, and Pallas far 

away 
Call'd ; and a boundless panic shook the 

foe. 
For like the clear voice when a trumpet 

shrills, 
Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a 

town, 
So rang the clear voice of ^akides ; 
And when the brazen cry of ^akides 
Was heard among the Trojans, all their 

hearts 
Were troubled, and the full-maned horses 

whirl'd 
The chariots backward, knowing griefs 

at hand ; 
And sheer-astounded were the charioteers 
To see the dread, unweariable fire 
That always o'er the great Peleion's 

head 
Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess made 

it burn. 
Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty 

shout, 
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and 

allies ; 
And there and then twelve of their noblest 

died 
Among their spears and chariots. 



TO THE PRINCESS FREDERIC A TO DANTE 



537 



TO PRINCESS FREDERICA 

ON HER MARRIAGE 

O YOU that were eyes and light to the 
King till he past away 
From the darkness of life — 
He saw not his daughter — he blest her : 
the blind King sees you to-day, 
He blesses the wife. 

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN 

ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

Not here ! the white North has thy 
bones ; and thou, 

Heroic sailor-soul, 
Art passing on thine happier voyage now 

Toward no earthly pole. 



TO DANTE 

(WRITTEN AT REQUEST OF THE 
FLORENTINES) 

King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, 

and grown 
In power, and ever growest, since thine 

own 
Fair Florence honouring thy nativity. 
Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, 
Hath sought the tribute of a verse from 

me, 
I, wearing but the garland of a day. 
Cast at thy feet one flower that fades 

away. 



TIRESIAS 

AND OTHER POEMS 

TO MY GOOD FRIEND 

ROBERT BROWNING, ^ 

WHOSE GENIUS AND GENIALITY WILL BEST APPRECIATE WHAT MAY BE BEST, 

AND MAKE MOST ALLOWANCE FOR WHAT MAY BE WORST, 

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 



TO E. FITZGERALD 

Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange, 

Where once I tarried for a while, 
Glance at the wheeling Orb of change. 

And greet it with a kindly smile ; 
Whom yet I see as there you sit 

Beneath your sheltering garden-tree, 
And while your doves about you flit, 

And plant on shoulder, hand and knee, 
Or on your head their rosy feet, 

As if they knew your diet spares 
Whatever moved in that full sheet 

Let down to Peter at his prayers ; 
Who live on milk and meal and grass ; 

And once for ten long weeks I tried 
Your table of Pythagoras, 



And seem'd at first ' a thing enskied ' 
(As Shakespeare has it) airy-light 

To float above the ways of men, 
Then fell from that half-spiritual heigh 

Chill'd, till I tasted flesh again 
One night when earth was winter-black. 

And all the heavens flash'd in frost ; 
And on me, half-asleep, came back 

That wholesome heat the blood had lost. 
And set me climbing icy capes 

And glaciers, over which there roll'd 
To meet me long-arm'd vines with grapes 

Of Eshcol hugeness ; for the cold 
Without, and warmth within mc, wrought 

To mould the dream ; but none can say 
That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought, 

Who reads your golden Eastern lay, 



538 



TIRESIAS 



Than which I know no version done 

In EngUsh more divinely well ; 
A planet equal to the sun 

Which cast it, that large infidel 
Your Omar ; and your Omar drew 

Full-handed plaudits from our best 
In modern letters, and from two, 

Old friends outvaluing all the rest, 
Two voices heard on earth no more ; 

But we old friends are still alive, 
And I am nearing seventy-four, 

While you have touch'd at seventy-five. 
And so I send a birthday line 

Of greeting ; and my son, who dipt 
In some forgotten book of mine 

With sallow scraps of manuscript, 
And dating many a year ago. 

Has hit on this, which you will take 
My Fitz, and welcome, as I know 

Less for its own than for the sake 
Of one recalling gracious times, 

When, in our younger London days, 
You found soiTie merit in my rhymes, 

And I more pleasure in your praise. 

TIRESIAS 

I WISH I were as in the years of old, 
While yet the blessed daylight made itself 
Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, and 

woke 
These eyes, now dull, but then so keen 

to seek 
The meanings ambush'd under all they 

saw, 

The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice. 

What omens may foreshadow fate to man 

And woman, and the secret of the Gods. 

My son, the Gods, despite of human 

prayer. 
Are slower to forgive than human kings. 
The great God, Ares, burns in anger still 
Against the guiltless heirs of him from 

Tyre, 
Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, 

who found 
Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, and 

still'd 
Thro' all its folds the multitudinous beast, 
The dragon, which our trembling fathers 

call'd 



The God's own son. 

A tale, that told to me. 
When but thine age, by age as winter- 
white 
As mine is now, amazed, but made me 

yearn 
For larger glimpses of that more than man 
Which rolls the heavens, and lifts, and 

lays the deep. 
Yet loves and hates with mortal hates 

and loves, 
And moves unseen among the ways of 

men. 
Then, in my wanderings all the lands 

that lie 
Subjected to the Heliconian ridge 
Have heard this footstep fall, altho' my 

wont 
Was more to scale the highest of the 

heights 
With some strange hope to see the nearer 

God. 
One naked peak — the sister of the sun 
Would climb from out the dark, and 

linger there 
To silver all the valleys with her shafts — 
There once, but long ago, five-fold thy 

term 
Of years, I lay ; the winds were dead 

for heat ; 
The noonday crag made the hand burn ; 

and sick 
For shadow — not one bush was near — 

I rose 
Following a torrent till its myriad falls 
Found silence in the hollows underneath. 

There in a secret olive-glade I saw 
Pallas Athene climbing from the bath 
In anger ; yet one glittering foot disturb'd 
The lucid well ; one snowy knee was prest 
Against the margin flowers ; a dreadful 

light 
Came from her golden hair, her golden 

helm 
And all her golden armour on the grass. 
And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes 
Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew 

dark 
For ever, and I heard a voice that said 
' Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen 

too much, 



TIRESIAS 



539 



And speak the truth that no man may 

beheve,' 
Son, in the hidden world of sight, that 

lives 
Behind this darkness, I behold her still, 
Beyond all work of those who carve the 

stone, 
Beyond all dreams of Godlike woman- 
hood, 
Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a 

glance. 
And as it were, perforce, upon me flash'd 
The power of prophesying — but to me 
No power — so chain'd and coupled with 

the curse 
Of blindness and their unbelief, who 

heard 
And heard not, when I spake of famine, 

plague, 
Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, 

thunderbolt. 
And angers of the Gods for evil done 
And expiation lack'd — no power on Fate, 
Theirs, or mine own ! for when the 

crowd would roar 
For blood, for war, whose issue was their 

doom. 
To cast wise words among the multitude 
Was flinging fruit to lions ; nor, in 

hours 
Of civil outbreak, when I knew the twain 
Would each waste each, and bring on 

both the yoke 
Of stronger states, was mine the voice to 

curb 
The madness of our cities and their 

kings. 
Who ever turn'd upon his heel to hear 
My warning that the tyranny of one 
Was prelude to the tyranny of all ? 
My counsel that the tyranny of all 
Led backward to the tyranny of one ? 
This power hath work'd no good to 

aught that lives, 
And these blind hands were useless in 

their wars. 
O therefore that the unfulfill'd desire, 
The grief for ever born from griefs to be. 
The boundless yearning of the Prophet's 

heart — 



Could that stand forth, and like a statue, 

rear'd 
To some great citizen, win all praise 

from all 
Who past it, saying, ' That was he ! ' 

In vain ! 
Virtue must shape itself in deed, and 

those 
Whom weakness or necessity have cramp'd 
Within themselves, immerging, each, his 

urn 
In his own well, draw solace as he may. 
Menoeceus, thou hast eyes, and I can 

hear 
Too plainly what full tides of onset sap 
Our seven high gates, and what a weight 

of war 
Rides on those ringing axles ! jingle of 

bits. 
Shouts, arrows, tramp of the hornfooted 

horse 
That grind the glebe to powder ! Stony 

showers 
Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares crash 
Along the sounding walls. Above, 

below, 
Shock after shock, the song-built towers 

and gates 
Reel, bruised and butted with the 

shuddering 
War - thunder of iron rams ; and from 

within 
The city comes a murmur void of joy, 
.Lest she be taken captive — maidens, 

wives. 
And mothers with their babblers of the 

dawn. 
And oldest age in shadow from the 

night. 
Falling about their shrines before their 

Gods, 
And wailing 'Save us.' 

And they wail to thee ! 
These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine 

own. 
See this, that only in thy virtue lies 
The saving of our Thebes ; for, yester- 
night. 
To me, the great God Ares, whose one 

bliss 



540 



TIKESIAS 



Is war, and human sacrifice — himself 


The Dragon's cave 


Blood-red from battle, spear and helmet 


Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing 


tipt 


vines — 


With stormy light as on a mast at sea. 


Where once he dwelt and whence he 


Stood out before a darkness, crying 


roU'd himself 


« Thebes, 


At dead of night — thou knowest, and 


Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I 


that smooth rock 


loathe 


Before it, altar-fashion'd, where of late 


The seed of Cadmus — yet if one of these 


The woman-breasted Sphinx, with wings 


By his own hand — if one of these ' 


drawn back, 


My son, 


Folded her lion paws, and look'd to 


No sound is breathed so potent to 


Thebes. 


coerce, 


There blanch the bones of whom she 


And to conciliate, as their names who 


slew, and these 


dare 


Mixt with her own, because the fierce 


For that sweet mother land which gave 


beast found 


them birth 


A wiser than herself, and dash'd herself 


Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names. 


Dead in her rage : but thou art wise 


Graven on memorial columns, are a 


enough, 


song 


Tho' young, to love thy wiser, blunt the 


Heard in the future ; few, but more than 


curse 


wall 


Of Pallas, hear, and tho' I speak the 


And rampart, their examples reach a 


truth 


hand 


Believe I speak it, let thine own hand 


Far thro' all years, and everywhere they 


strike 


meet 


Thy youthful pulses into rest and quench 


And kindle generous purpose, and the 


The red God's anger, fearing not to plunge 


strength 


Thy torch of life in darkness, rather — 


To mould it into action pure as theirs. 


thou 


Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's best 


Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the 


end 


stars 


Be to end well ! and thou refusing this, 


Send no such light upon the ways of men 


Unvenerable will thy memory be 


As one great deed. 


While men shall move the lips : but if 


Thither, my son, and there 


thou dare — 


Thou, that hast never known the embrace 


Thou, one of these, the race of Cadmus 


of love. 


— then 


Offer thy maiden life. 


No stone is fitted in yon marble girth 


This useless hand ! 


Whose echo shall not tongue thy glorious 


I felt one warm tear fall upon it. Gone ! 


doom. 


He will achieve his greatness. 


Nor in this pavement but shall ring thy 


But for me. 


name 


I would that I were gather 'd to my rest. 


To every hoof that clangs it, and the 


And mingled with the famous kings of 


springs 


old. 


Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain, 


On whom about their ocean-islets flash 


Heard from the roofs by night, will mur- 


The faces of the Gods — the wise man's 


mur thee 


word. 


To thine own Thebes, while Thebes thro' 


Here trampled by the populace underfoot. 


thee shall stand 


There crown'd with worship — and these 


Firm-based with all her Gods. 


eyes will find 



THE WRECK 



541 



The men I knew, and watch the chariot 

whirl 
About the goal again, and hunters race 
The shadowy lion, and the warrior- 
kings. 
In height and prowess more than human, 

strive 
Again for glory, while the golden lyre 
Is ever sounding in heroic ears 
Heroic hymns, and every way the vales 
Wind, clouded with the grateful incense- 
fume 
Of those who mix all odour to the Gods 
On one far height in one far-shining fire. 



' One height and one far-shining fire ' 

And while I fancied that my friend 
For this brief idyll would require 

A less diffuse and opulent end, 
And would defend his judgment M^ell, 

If I should deem it over nice — 
The tolling of his funeral bell 

Broke on my Pagan Paradise, 
And mixt the dream of classic times 

And all the phantoms of the dream, 
With present grief, and made the rhymes, 

That miss'd his living welcome, seem 
Like would-be guests an hour too late, 

Who down the highway moving on 
With easy laughter find the gate 

Is bolted, and the master gone. 
Gone into darkness, that full light 

Of friendship ! past, in sleep, away 
By night, into the deeper night ! 

The deeper night ? A clearer day 
Than our poor twilight dawn on earth — 

If night, what barren toil to be ! 
What life, so maim'd by night, were 
worth 

Our living out ? Not mine to me 
Remembering all the golden hours 

Now silent, and so many dead. 
And him the last ; and laying flowers. 

This wreath, above his honour'd head. 
And praying that, when I from hence 

Shall fade with him into the unknown, 
My close of earth's experience 

May prove as peaceful as his own. 



THE WRECK 



Hide me, Mother ! my Fathers belong'd 

to the church of old, 
I am driven by storm and sin and death 

to the ancient fold, 
I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, 

to the Faith that saves. 
My brain is full of the crash of wrecks, 

and the roar of waves. 
My life itself is a wreck, I have sullied a 

noble name, 
I am flung from the rushing tide of the 

world as a waif of shame, 
I am roused by the wail of a child, and 

awake to a livid light. 
And a ghastlier face than ever has haunted 

a grave by night, 
I would hide from the storm without, I 

would flee from the storm within, 
I would make my life one prayer for a 

soul that died in his sin, 
I was the tempter. Mother, and mine was 

the deeper fall ; 
I will sit at your feet, I will hide my face, 

I will tell you all. 



He that they gave me to. Mother, a 
heedless and innocent bride — 

I never have wrong'd his heart, I have 
only wounded his pride — 

Spain in his blood and the Jew dark- 
visaged, stately and tall — 

A princelier-looking man never stept thro' 
a Prince's hall. 

And who, when his anger was kindled, 
would venture to give him the nay ? 

And a man men fear is a man to be loved 
by the women they say. 

And I could have loved him too, if the 
blossom can doat on the blight. 

Or the young green leaf rejoice in the frost 
that sears it at night ; 

He would open the books that I prized, 
and toss them away with a yawn. 



542 



THE WRECK 



Repell'd by the magnet of Art to the which 

my nature was drawn, 
The word of the Poet by whom the deeps 

of the world are stirr'd, 
The music that robes it in language beneath 

and beyond the word ! 
My Shelley would fall from my hands when 

he cast a contemptuous glance 
From where he was poring over his 

Tables of Trade and Finance ; 
My hands, when I heard him coming, 

would drop from the chords or the 

keys, 
But ever I fail'd to please him, however 

I strove to please — 
All day long far-off in the cloud of the 

city, and there 
Lost, head and heart, in the chances of 

dividend, consol, and share^ 
And at home if I sought for a kindly 

caress, being woman and weak, 
His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of snow 

on the cheek : 
And so, when I bore him a girl, when I 

held it aloft in my joy. 
He look'd at it coldly, and said to me 

' Pity it isn't a boy.' 
The one thing given me, to love and to 

live for, glanced at in scorn ! 
The child that I felt I could die for — as 

if she were baSely born ! 
I had lived a wild- flower life, I was planted 

now in a tomb ; 
The daisy will shut to the shadow, I closed 

my heart to the gloom ; 
I threw myself all abroad — I would play 

my part with the young 
By the low foot -lights of the world — and 

I caught the wreath that was flung. 



Mother, I have not — however their 

tongues may have babbled of me — 
Sinn'd thro' an animal vileness, for all 

but a dwarf was he, 
And all but a hunchback too ; and I 

look'd at him, first, askance, 
With pity — not he the knight for an 

amorous girl's romance ! 



Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd in 
the light of a dowerless smile, 

Having lands at home and abroad in a 
rich West-Indian isle ; 

But I came on him once at a ball, the 
heart of a listening crowd — 

Why, what a brow was there ! he was 
seated — speaking aloud 

To women, the flower of the time, and 
men at the helm of state — 

Flowing with easy greatness and touch- 
ing on all things great. 

Science, philosophy, song — till I felt my- 
self ready to weep 

For I knew not what, when I heard that 
voice, — as mellow and deep 

As a psalm by a mighty master and peal'd 
from an organ, — roll 

Rising and falling — for, Mother, the voice 
was the voice of the soul ; 

And the sun of the soul made day in the 
dark of his wonderful eyes. 

Here was the hand that would help me, 
would heal me — the heart that 
was wise ! 

And he, poor man, when he learnt that 
I hated the ring I wore. 

He helpt me with death, and he heal'd 
me with sorrow for evermore. 

IV 

For I broke the bond. That day my 

nurse had brought me the child. 
The small sweet face was flush'd, but it 

coo'd to the Mother and smiled. 
' Anything ailing,' I ask'd her, ' with 

baby ? ' She shook her head, 
And the Motherless Mother kiss'd it, and 

turn'd in her haste and fled. 



Low warm winds had gently breathed us 

away from the land — 
Ten long sweet summer days upon deck, 

sitting hand in hand — 
When he clothed a naked mind with the 

wisdom and wealth of his own. 
And I bow'd myself down as a slave to 

his intellectual throne. 



THE WRECK 



543 



When he coin'd into English gold some 

treasure of classical song, 
When he flouted . a statesman's error, or 

flamed at a public wrong. 
When he rose as it were on the wings of 

an eagle beyond me, and past 
Over the range and the change of the 

world from the first to the last, 
W^hen he spoke of his tropical home in 

the canes by the purple tide. 
And the high star-crowns of his palms on 

the deep-wooded mountain-side. 
And cliffs all robed in lianas that dropt 

to the brink of his bay. 
And trees like the towers of a minster, 

the sons of a winterless day. 
' Paradise there ! ' so he said, but I seem'd 

in Paradise then 
With the first great love I had felt for the 

first and greatest of men ; 
Ten long days of summer and sin — if it 

must be so — 
But days of a larger light than I ever 

again shall know — 
Days that will glimmer, I fear, thro' life 

to my latest breath ; 
' No frost there,' so he said, ' as in truest 

Love no Death.' 



Mother, one morning a bird with a warble 

plaintively sweet 
Perch'd on the shrouds, and then fell 

fluttering down at my feet ; 
I took it, he made it a cage, we fondled 

it, Stephen and I, 
But it died, and I thought of the child 

for a moment, I scarce know why. 



But if sin be sin, not inherited fate, as 

many will say, 
My sin to my desolate little one found 

me at sea on a day, 
Wlien her orphan wail came borne in the 

shriek of a growing wind, 
And a voice rang out in the thunders of 

Ocean and Heaven ' Thou hast 

sinn'd.' 



And down in the cabin were we, for the 

towering crest of the tides 
Plunged on the vessel and swept in a 

cataract off from her sides. 
And ever the great storm grew with a 

howl and a hoot of the blast 
In the rigging, voices of hell — then came 

the crash of the mast. 
'The wages of sin is death,' and there I 

began to weep, 
' I am the Jonah, the crew should cast 

me into the deep. 
For ah God, what a heart was mine to 

forsake her even for you.' 
' Never the heart among women,' he said, 

' more tender and true.' 
' The heart ! not a mother's heart, when 

I left my darling alone.' 
' Comfort yourself, for the heart of the 

father will care for his own.' 
'The heart of the father will spurn her,' 

I cried, ' for the sin of the wife, 
The cloud of the mother's shame will 

enfold her and darken her life.' 
Then his pale face twitch'd ; ' O Stephen, 

I love you, I love you, and yet' — 
As I lean'd away from his arms — 'would 

God, we had never met ! ' 
And he spoke not — only the storm ; till 

after a little, I yearn'd 
For his voice again, and he call'd to me 

'Kiss me!' and there — as I 

turn'd — 
' The heart, the heart ! ' I kiss'd him, I 

clung to the sinking form. 
And the storm went roaring above us, 

and he — was out of the storm. 



And then, then. Mother, the ship stag- 

ger'd under a thunderous shock. 
That shook us asunder, as if she had 

struck and crash'd on a rock ; 
For a huge sea smote every soul from the 

decks of The Falcon but one ; 
All of them, all but the man that was 

lash'd to the helm had gone ; 
And I fell — and the storm and the days 

went by, but I knew no more — 



544 



DESPAIR 



\ 



Lost m3/self — lay like the dead by the 

dead on the cabin floor, 
Dead to the death beside me, and lost to 

the loss that was mine, 
With a dim dream, now and then, of a 

hand giving bread and wine, 
Till I woke from the trance, and the ship 

stood still, and the skies were 

blue. 
But the face I had known, O Mother, 

was not the face that I knew. 



The strange misfeaturing mask that I saw 

so amazed me, that I 
Stumbled on deck, half mad, I would 

fling myself over and die ! 
But one — he was waving a flag — the one 

man left on the wreck — 
'Woman' — he graspt at my arm — 'stay 

there' — I crouch'd upon deck — 
' We are sinking, and yet there's hope : 

look yonder,' he cried, 'a sail' 
In a tone so rough that I broke into 

passionate tears, and the wail 
Of a beaten babe, till I saw that a boat 

was nearing us — then 
All on a sudden I thought, I shall look 

on the child again. 



They lower'd me down the side, and 

there in the boat I lay 
With sad eyes fixt on the lost sea-home, 

as we glided away, 
And I sigh'd, as the low dark hull dipt 

under the smiling main, 
' Had I stay'd with hiin, I had now — 

with him — been out of my pain.' 



They took us aboard : the crew were 
gentle, the captain kind ; 

But / was the lonely slave of an often- 
wandering mind ; 

For whenever a rougher gust might 
tumble a stormier wave, 

' O Stephen,' I moan'd, ' I am coming 
to thee in thine Ocean-grave.' 



And again, when a balmier breeze curl'd 

over a peacefuUer sea, 
I found myself moaning again ' O child, 

I am coming to thee.' 

XII 

The broad white brow of the Isle — that 

bay with the colour'd sand — 
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we 

drew to the land ; 
All so quiet the ripple would hardly 

blanch into spray 
At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd — 

' my child ' — for I still could 

pray— 
' May her life be as blissfully calm, be 

never gloom'd by the curse 
Of a sin, not hers ! ' 

Was it well with the child ? 
I wrote to the nurse 
Who had borne my flower on her hireling 

heart ; and an answer came 
Not from the nurse — nor yet to the wife 

— to her maiden name ! 
I shook as I open'd the letter — I knew 

that hand too well — 
And from it a scrap, dipt out of the 

' deaths ' in a paper, fell. 
' Ten long sweet summer days ' of fever, 

and want of care ! 
And gone — that day of the storm — O 

Mother, she came to me there. 



DESPAIR 

A man and his wife h.iving lost faith in a God, 
and hope of a life to come, and being utterly 
miserable in this, resolve to end themselves by 
drowning. The woman is drowned, but the man 
rescued by a minister of the sect he had aban- 
doned. 

I 

Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel 
there looking over the sand ? 

FoUow'd us too that night, and dogg'd 
us, and drew me to land ? 



What did I feel that night ? You are 
curious. How should I tell ? 



DESPAIR 



545 



Does it matter so much what I felt ? 

You rescued me — yet — was it 

well 
That you came unwish'd for, uncall'd, 

between me and the deep and my 

doom, 
Three days since, three more dark days 

of the Godless gloom 
Of a life without sun, without health, with- 
out hope, without any delight 
In anything here upon earth ? but ah 

God, that night, that night 
When the rolling eyes of the lighthouse 

there on the fatal neck 
Of land running out into rock — they had 

saved many hundreds fromwreck — 
Glared on our way toward death, I re- 
member I thought, as we past, 
Does it matter how many they saved ? 

we are all of us wreck'd at last — 
* Do you fear ? ' and there came thro' the 

roar of the breaker a whisper, a 

breath, 
' Fear ? am I not with you ? I am 

frighted at life not death.' 



And the suns of the limitless Universe 
sparkled and shone in the sky, 

Flashing with fires as of God, but we 
knew that their light was a lie — 

Bright as with deathless hope — but, 
however they sparkled and shone. 

The dark little worlds running round 
them were worlds of woe like our 
own — 

No soul in the heaven above, no soul on 
the earth below, 

A fiery scroll written over with lamenta- 
tion and woe. 



See, we were nursed in the drear night- 
fold of your fatalist creed, 

And we turn'd to the growing dawn, we 
had hoped for a dawn indeed. 

When the light of a Sun that was coming 
would scatter the ghosts of the 
Past, 



And the cramping creeds that had 

madden'd the peoples would 

vanish at last, 
And we broke away from the Christ, our 

human brother and friend, 
For He spoke, or it seem'd that He 

spoke, of a Hell without help, 

without end. 



Hoped for a dawn and it came, but the 

promise had faded away ; 
We had past from a cheerless night to 

the glare of a drearier day ; 
He is only a cloud and a smoke who was 

once a pillar of fire, 
The guess of a worm in the dust and the 

shadow of its desire — 
Of a worm as it writhes in a world of the 

weak trodden down by the strong. 
Of a dying worm in a world, all massacre, 

murder, and wrong. 



O we poor orphans of nothing — alone on 

that lonely shore — 
Born of the brainless Nature who knew 

not that which she bore ! 
Trusting no longer that earthly flower 

would be heavenly fruit — 
Come from the brute, poor souls — no souls 

— and to die with the brute 



VII 

Nay, but I am not claiming your pity : I 

know you of old — 
Small pity for those that have ranged from 

the narrow warmth of your fold. 
Where you bawl'd the dark side of your 

faith and a God of eternal rage. 
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and 

the human heart, and the Age. 

VIII 

But pity — the Pagan held it a vice — was 

in her and in me. 
Helpless, taking the place of the pitying 

God that should be ! 

2 N 



546 



DESPAIR 



Pity for all that aches in the grasp of an 

idiot power, 
And pity for our own selves on an earth 

that bore not a flower ; 
Pity for all that sufl"ers on land or in air 

or the deep, 
And pity for our own selves till we long'd 

for eternal sleep. 

IX 

' Lightly step over the sands ! the waters 

— you hear them call ! 
Life with its anguish, and horrors, and 

errors — away with it all ! ' 
And she laid her hand in my own — she 

was always loyal and sweet — 
Till the points of the foam in the dusk 

came playing about our feet. 
There was a strong sea -current would 

sweep us out to the main. 
' Ah God ' tho' I felt as I spoke I was 

taking the name in vain — 
' Ah God ' and we turn'd to each other, 

we kiss'd, we embraced, she and I, 
Knowing the Love we were used to be- 
lieve everlasting would die : 
We had read their know-nothing books 

and we lean'd to the darker side- — 
Ah God, should we find Him, perhaps, 

perhaps, if we died, if we died ; 
We never had found Him on earth, this 

earth is a fatherless Hell — 
' Dear Love, for ever and ever, for ever 

and ever farewell,' 
Never a cry so desolate, not since the 

world began, 
Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the 

coming of man ! 



But the blind wave cast me ashore, and 

you saved me, a valueless life. 
Not a grain of gratitude mine ! You 

have parted the man from the wife. 
I am left alone on the land, she is all 

alone in the sea ; 
If a curse meant ought, I would curse 

you for not having let me be. 



Visions of youth — for my brain was drunk 

with the water, it seems ; 
I had past into perfect quiet at length 

out of pleasant dreams, 
And the transient trouble of drowning — 

what was it when match'd with 

the pains 
Of the hellish heat of a wretched life 

rushing back thro' the veins ? 



Why should I live ? one son had forged 

on his father and fled, 
And if I believed in a God, I would 

thank him, the other is dead. 
And there was a baby-girl, that had 

never look'd on the light : 
Happiest she of us all, for she past from 

the night to the night. 

XIII 

But the crime, if a crime, of her eldest- 
born, her glory, her boast. 

Struck hard at the tender heart of the 
mother, and broke it almost ; 

Tho', glory and shame dying out for ever 
in endless time. 

Does it matter so much whether crown'd 
for a virtue, or hang'd for a crime ? 



And ruin'd by hiin^ by him^ I stood 
there, naked, amazed 

In a world of arrogant opulence, fear'd 
myself turning crazed. 

And I would not be mock'd in a mad- 
house ! and she, the delicate wife, 

With a grief that could only be cured, if 
cured, by the surgeon's knife, — 



Why should we bear with an hour of 
torture, a moment of pain, 

If every man die for ever, if all his griefs 
are in vain. 

And the homeless planet at length will be 
wheel'd thro' the silence of space, 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 



547 



Motherless evermore of an ever-vanishing 

race, 
When the worm shall have writhed its 

last, and its last brother - worm 

will have fled 
From the dead fossil skull that is left in 

the rocks of an earth that is dead ? 

XVI 

Have I crazed myself over their horrible 

infidel writings ? O yes, 
For these are the new dark ages, you see, 

of the popular press, 
When the bat comes out of his cave, and 

the owls are whooping at noon, 
And Doubt is the lord of this dunghill 

and crows to the sun and the 

moon, 
Till the Sun and the Moon of our science 

are both of them turn'd into blood. 
And Hope will have broken her heart, 

running after a shadow of good ; 
For their knowing and know-nothing 

books are scatter'd from hand to 

hand — 
We have knelt in your know-all chapel 

too looking: over the sand. 



What ! I should call on that Infinite 
Love that has served us so well ? 

infinite cruelty rather that made ever- 
lasting Hell, 

Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and 
does what he will with his own ; 

Better our dead brute mother who never 
has heard us groan ! 



Hell ? if the souls of men were immortal, 

as men have been told, 
The lecher would cleave to his lusts, and 

the miser would yearn for his gold. 
And so there were Hell for ever ! but 

were there a God as you say, 
His Love would have power over Hell 

till it utterly vanish'd away. 



Ah yet — I have had some glimmer, at 
times, in my gloomiest woe, 

Of a God behind all — after all — the great 
God for aught that I know ; 

But the God of Love and of Hell to- 
gether — they cannot be thought. 

If there be such a God, may the Great 
God curse him and bring him to 
nought ! 



Blasphemy ! whose is the fault ? is it 

mine ? for why would you save 
A madman to vex you with wretched 

words, who is best in his grave ? 
Blasphemy ! ay, why not, being damn'd 

beyond hope of grace ? 
O would I were yonder with her, and 

away from your faith and your 

face ! 
Blasphemy ! true ! I have scared you 

pale with my scandalous talk. 
But the blasphemy to my mind lies all in 

the way that you walk. 



Hence ! she is gone ! can I stay ? can I 

breathe divorced from the Past ? 
You needs must have good lynx-eyes if I 

do not escape you at last. 
Our orthodox coroner doubtless will find 

it a felo-de-se. 
And the stake and the cross-road, fool, 

if you will, does it matter to me ? 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 

A THOUSAND summers ere the time of 

Christ 
From out his ancient city came a Seer 
Whom one that loved, and honour'd 

him, and yet 
Was no disciple, richly garb'd, but worn 
From wasteful living, follow'd — in his 

hand 
A scroll of verse — till that old man before 



54S 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 



A cavern whence an affluent fountain 

pour'd 
From darkness into daylight, turn'd and 

spoke. 

This wealth of waters might but seem to 

draw 
From yon dark cave, but, son, the source 

is higher, 
Yon summit half-a-league in air — and 

higher, 
The cloud that hides it — higher still, the 

heavens 
Whereby the cloud was moulded, and 

whereout 
The cloud descended. Force is from the 

heights. 
I am wearied of our city, son, and go 
To spend my one last year among the 

hills. 
What hast thou there ? Some deathsong 

for the Ghouls 
To make their banquet relish ? let me 

read. 

" How far thro' all the bloom and brake 

That nightingale is heard ! 
What power but the bird's could make 

This music in the bird ? 
How summer -bright are yonder skies, 

And earth as fair in hue ! 
And yet what sign of aught that lies 

Behind the green and blue ? 
But man to-day is fancy's fool 

As man hath ever been. 
The nameless Power, or Powers, that rule 

Were never heard or seen." 

If thou would'st hear the Nameless, and 

wilt dive 
Into the Temple-cave of thine own self. 
There, brooding by the central altar, thou 
May'st haply learn the Nameless hath a 

voice, 
By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise, 
As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst not 

know ; 
For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake 
That sees and stirs the surface-shadow 

there 



But never yet hath dipt into the abysm. 
The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, 

within 
The blue of sky and sea, the green of 

earth. 
And in the million-millionth of a grain _, 
Which cleft and cleft again for evermore, 
And ever vanishing, never vanishes. 
To me, my son, more mystic than myself, 
Or even than the Nameless is to me. 
And when thou sendest thy free soul 
thro' heaven, 
Nor understandest bound nor boundless- 
ness. 
Thou seest the Nameless of the hundred 
names. 
And if the Nameless should withdraw 
from all 
Thy frailty counts most real, all thy world 
Might vanish like thy shadow in the dark. 

"And since — from when this earth 
began — 

The Nameless never came 
Among us, never spake with man, 

And never named the Name " — 

Thou canst not prove the Nameless, O ' 

my son, 
Nor canst thou prove the world thoii 

movest in. 
Thou canst not prove that thou art bodj 

alone. 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art spiril 

alone, 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art botl 

in one : 
Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, nd 
Nor yet that thou art mortal — nay m| 

son. 
Thou canst not prove that I, who speal 

with thee. 

Am not thyself in converse with thyself, 
For nothing worthy proving can be 

proven. 
Nor yet disproven : wherefore thou be 

wise. 
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt. 
And cling to Faith beyond the forms of 

Faith ! 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 



549 



She reels not in the storm of warring 

words, 
She brightens at the clash of ' Yes ' and 

'No,' 
She sees the Best that glimmers thro' the 

Worst, 
She feels the Sun is hid but for a night, 
She spies the summer thro' the winter 

bud, 
She tastes the fruit before the blossom 

falls, 
She hears the lark within the songless egg, 
She finds the fountain where they wail'd 

< Mirage ' ! 

"What Power? aught akin to Mind, 
The mind in me and you ? 

Or power as of the Gods gone blind 
Who see not what they do ? " 

But some in yonder city hold, my son, 
That none but Gods could build this 

house of ours. 
So beautiful, vast, various, so beyond 
All work of man, yet, like all work of 

man, 
A beauty with defect till That which 

knows. 
And is not known, but felt thro' what we 

feel 
Within ourselves is highest, shall descend 
On this half-deed, and shape it at the 

last 
According to the Highest in the Highest. 

' ' What Power but the Years that make 

And break the vase of clay. 
And stir the sleeping earth, and wake 

The bloom that fades away ? 
What rulers but the Days and Hours 

That cancel weal with woe. 
And wind the front of youth with flowers, 

And cap our age with snow ? " 

The days and hours are ever glancing 

by, 

And seem to flicker past thro' sun and 

shade. 
Or short, or long, as Pleasure leads, or 

Pain ; 



But with the Nameless is nor Day nor 

Hour ; 
Tho' we, thin minds, who creep from 

thought to thought, 
Break into ' Thens ' and ' Whens ' the 

Eternal Now : 
This double seeming of the single world ! — 
My words are like the babblings in a 

dream 
Of nightmare, when the babblings break 

the dream. 
But thou be wise in this dream-world of 

ours. 
Nor take thy dial for thy deity, 
But make the passing shadow serve thy 

will. 

"The years that made the stripling wise 

Undo their work again, 
And leave him, blind of heart and eyes. 

The last and least of men ; 
Who clings to earth, and once would dare 

Hell-heat or Arctic cold. 
And now one breath of cooler air 

Would loose him from his hold ; 
His winter chills him to the root. 

He withers marrow and mind ; 
The kernel of the shrivell'd fruit 

Is jutting thro' the rind ; 
The tiger spasms tear his chest. 

The palsy wags his head ; 
The wife, the sons, who love him best 

Would fain that he were dead ; 
The griefs by which he once was wrung 

Were never worth the while " — 

Who knows? or whether this earth-narrow 

life 
Be yet but yolk, and forming in the shell ? 

" The shaft of scorn that once had stung 
But wakes a dotard smile." 

The placid gleam of sunset after storm ! 

' ' The statesman's brain that sway'd the 
past 

Is feebler than his knees ; 
The passive sailor wrecks at last 

In ever-silent seas ; 



550 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 



The warrior hath forgot his arms, 

The Learned all his lore ; 
The changing market frets or charms 

The merchant's hope no more ; 
The prophet's beacon burn'd in vain, 

And now is lost in cloud ; 
The plowman passes, bent with pain, 

To mix with what he plow'd ; 
The poet whom his Age would quote 

As heir of endless fame — 
He knows not ev'n the book he wrote. 

Not even his own name. 
For man has overlived his day, 

And, darkening in the light. 
Scarce feels the senses break awa}^ 

To mix with ancient Night." 

The shell must break before the bird can fly. 

"The years that when my Youth began 

Had set the lily and rose 
By all my ways where'er they ran, 

Have ended mortal foes ; 
My rose of love for ever gone, 

My lily of truth and trust — 
They made her lily and rose in one, 

And changed her into dust. 
O rosetree planted in my grief, 

And growing, on her tomb. 
Her dust is greening in your leaf, 

Her blood is in your bloom. 
O slender lily waving there. 

And laughing back the light, 
In vain you tell me ' Earth is fair ' 

When all is dark as night." 

My son, the world is dark with griefs and 

graves. 
So dark that men cry out against the 

Heavens. 
Who knows but that the darkness is in 

man ? 
The doors of Night may be the gates of 

Light ; 
For wert thou born or blind or deaf, and 

then 
Suddenly heal'd, how would'st thou glory 

in all 
The splendours and the voices of the 

world ! 



And we, the poor earth's dying race, and yet 
No phantoms, watching from a phantom 

shore, 
Await the last and largest sense to make 
The phantom walls of this illusion fade, 
And show us that the world is wholly fair. 

" But vain the tears for darken'd years 

As laughter over wine, 
And vain the laughter as the tears, 

O brother, mine or thine. 

For all that laugh, and all that weep 
And all that breathe are one 

Slight ripple on the boundless deep 
That moves, and all is gone." 

But that one ripple on the boundless deep 
Feels that the deep is boundless, and 

itself 
For ever changing form, but evermore 
One with the boundless motion of the 

deep. 

"Yet wine and laughter friends ! and set 
The lamps alight, and call 

For golden music, and forget 
The darkness of the pall." 

If utter darkness closed the day, my 

son 

But earth's dark forehead flings athwart 

the heavens 
Her shadow crown'd with stars — and 

yonder — out 
To northward — some that never set, but 

pass 
From sight and night to lose themselves 

in day. 
I hate the black negation of the bier, 
And wish the dead, as happier than our- 
selves 
And higher, having climb'd one step 

beyond 
Our village miseries, might be borne in 

white 
To burial or to burning, hymn'd from 

hence 
With songs in praise of death, and 

crown'd with flowers ! 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 



551 



'* O worms and maggots of to-day 
Without their hope of wings ! " 

But louder than thy rhyme the silent Word 
Of that world-prophet in the heart of man. 

*' Tho' some have gleams or so they say 
Of more than mortal things." 

To-day ? but what of yesterday ? for oft 
On me, when boy, there came what then 

I call'd, 
Who knew no books and no philosophies, 
In my boy-phrase ' The Passion of the 

Past.' 
The first gray streak of earliest summer- 
dawn, 
The last long stripe of waning crimson 

gloom. 
As if the late and early were but one — 
A height, a broken grange, a grove, a 

flower 
Had murmurs ' Lost and gone and lost 

and gone ! ' 
A breath, a whisper — some divine fare- 
well — 
Desolate sweetness — far and far away — 
What had he loved, what had he lost, 

the boy ? 
I know not and I speak of what has been. 
And more, my son ! for more than 
once when I 
Sat all alone, revolving in myself 
The word that is the symbol of myself. 
The mortal limit of the Self was loosed, 
And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 
Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my limbs, 

the limbs 
Were strange not mine — and yet no shade 

of doubt. 
But utter clearness, and thro' loss of Self 
The gain of such large life as match'd 

with ours 
Were Sun to spark — unshadowable in 

words. 
Themselves but shadows of a shadow- 
world. 

" And idle gleams will come and go, 
But still the clouds remain ; " 



The clouds themselves are children of the 

Sun. 

" And Night and Shadow rule below 
When only Day should reign." 

And Day and Night are children of the 

Sun, 
And idle gleams to thee are light to me. 
Some say, the Light was father of the 

Night, 
And some, the Night was father of the 

_ Light, 
No night no day ! — I touch thy world 

again — 
No ill no good ! such counter-terms, my 

son. 
Are border-races, holding, each its own 
By endless war : but night enough is there 
In yon dark city : get thee back : and 

since 
The key to that weird casket, which for 

thee 
But holds a skull, is neither thine nor 

mine. 
But in the hand of what is more than man, 
Or in man's hand when man is more than 

man. 
Let be thy wail and help thy fellow men. 
And make thy gold thy vassal not thy 

. ^^"^' 
And fling free alms into the beggar's bowl, 

And send the day into the darken'd heart ; 
Nor list for guerdon in the voice of men, 
A dying echo from a falling wall ; 
Nor care — for Hunger hath the Evil eye — 
To vex the noon with fiery gems, or fold 
Thy presence in the silk of sumptuous 

looms ; 
Nor roll thy viands on a luscious tongue, 
Nor drown thyself with flies in honied 

wine ; 
Nor thou be rageful, like a handled bee. 
And lose thy life by usage of thy sting ; 
Nor harm an adder thro' the lust for harm, 
Nor make a snail's horn shrink for wan- 
tonness ; 
And more — think well ! Do-well will 

follow thought. 
And in the fatal sequence of this world 



552 



THE FLIGHT 



An evil thought may soil thy children's 

blood ; 
But curb the beast would cast thee in the 

mire, 
And leave the hot swamp of voluptuous- 
ness 
A cloud between the Nameless and thyself, 
And lay thine uphill shoulder to the 

wheel, 
And climb the Mount of Blessing, whence, 

if thou 
Look higher, then — perchance — thou 

mayest — beyond 
A hundred ever-rising mountain lines, 
And past the range of Night and Shadow 

— see 
The high -heaven dawn of more than 

mortal day 
Strike on the Mount of Vision ! 

So, farewell. 



THE FLIGHT 



Are you sleeping ? have you forgotten ? 

do not sleep, my sister dear ! 
How can you sleep ? the morning brings 

the day I hate and fear ; 
The cock has crow'd already once, he 

crows before his time ; 
Awake ! the creeping glimmer steals, the 

hills are white with rime. 



Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, 

fold me to your breast ! 
Ah, let me weep my fill once more, and 

cry myself to rest ! 
To rest ? to rest and wake no more were 

better rest for me, 
Than to waken every morning to that 

face I loathe to see : 

III 

I envied your sweet slumber, all night so 

calm you lay. 
The night was calm, the morn is calm, 

and like another day ; 



But I could wish yon moaning sea would 
rise and burst the shore. 

And such a whirlwind blow these woods, 
as never blew before. 



For, one by one, the stars went down 

across the gleaming pane, 
And project after project rose, and all of 

them were vain ; 
The blackthorn-blossom fades and falls 

and leaves the bitter sloe. 
The hope I catch at vanishes and youth 

is turn'd to woe. 



Come, speak a little comfort ! all night 

I pray'd with tears. 
And yet no comfort came to me, and 

now the morn appears, 
Wlien he will tear me from your side, 

who bought me for his slave : 
This father pays his debt with me, and 

weds me to my grave. 



What father, this or mine, was he, who, 

on that summer day 
When I had fall'n from off the crag we 

clamber'd up in play. 
Found, fear'd me dead, and groan'd, and 

took and kiss'd me, and again 
He kiss'd me ; and I loved him then ; 

he was my father then. 



No father now, the tyrant vassal of a 

tyrant vice ! 
The Godless Jephtha vows his child . . . 

to one cast of the dice. 
These ancient woods, this Hall at last 

will go — perhaps have gone. 
Except his own meek daughter yield her 

life, heart, soul to one — 

VIII 

To one who knows I scorn him. O the 
formal mocking bow, 



THE FLIGHT 



553 



The cruel smile, the courtly phrase that 
masks his malice now — 

But often in the sidelong eyes a gleam of 
all things ill — 

It is not Love but Hate that weds a 
bride against her will ; 

IX 

Hate, that would pluck from this true 

breast the locket that I wear, 
The precious crystal into which I braided 

Edwin's hair ! 
The love that keeps this heart alive beats 

on it night and day — 
One golden curl, his golden gift, before 

he past away. 



He left us weeping in the woods ; his 

boat was on the sand ; 
How slowly down the rocks he went, 

how loth to quit the land ! 
And all my life was darken'd, as I saw 

the white sail run, 
And darken, up that lane of light into 

the setting sun. 

XI 

How often have we watch'd the sun fade 

from us thro' the West, 
And follow Edwin to those isles, those 

islands of the Blest ! 
Is he not there ? would I were there, the 

friend, the bride, the wife, 
With him, where summer never dies, 

with Love, the Sun of Hfe ! 



O would I were in Edwin's arms — once 

more — to feel his breath 
Upon my cheek — on Edwin's ship, with 

Edwin, ev'n in death, 
Tho' all about the shuddering wreck the 

death-white sea should rave, 
Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows 

of the wave. 



XIII 

Shall I take him ? I kneel with him 1 I 

swear and swear forsworn 
To love him most, whom most I loathe, 

to honour whom I scorn ? 
The Fiend would yell, the grave would 

yawn, my mother's ghost would 

rise — 
To lie, to lie — in God's own house — the 

blackest of all lies ! 



Why — rather than that hand in mine, 

tho' every pulse would freeze, 
I'd sooner fold an icy corpse dead of 

some foul disease : 
Wed him ? I will not wed him, let them 

spurn me from the doors. 
And I will wander till I die about the 

barren moors. 



The dear, mad bride who stabb'd her 

bridegroom on her bridal night — 
If mad, then I am mad, but sane, if she 

were in the right. 
My father's madness makes me mad — 

but words are only words ! 
I am not mad, not yet, not quite — There ! 

listen how the birds 



Begin to warble yonder in the budding 

orchard trees ! 
The lark has past from earth to Heaven 

upon the morning breeze ! 
How gladly, were I one of those, how 

early would I wake ! 
And yet the sorrow that I bear is sorrow 

for his sake. 



They love their mates, to whom they 
sing ; or else their songs, that meet 

The morning with such music, would 
never be so sweet ! 

And tho' these fathers will not hear, the 
blessed Heavens are just, 



554 



THE FLIGHT 



And Love is fire, and burns the feet 
would trample it to dust. 



A door was open'd in the house — who ? 

who ? my father sleeps ! 
A stealthy foot upon the stair ! he — some 

one — this way creeps ! 
If he ? yes, he . . , lurks, listens, fears 

his victim may have fled — 
He ! where is some sharp-pointed thing ? 

he comes, and finds me dead. 



Not he, not yet ! and time to act — but 

how my temples burn ! 
And idle fancies flutter me, I know not 

where to turn ; 
Speak to me, sister ; counsel me ; this 

marriage must not be. 
You only know the love that makes the 

world a world to me ! 



Our gentle mother, had she lived — but 

we were left alone : 
That other left us to ourselves ; he cared 

not for his own ; 
So all the summer long we roam'd in 

these wild woods of ours. 
My Edwin loved to call us then ' His 

two wild woodland flowers.' 



Wild flowers blowing side by side in 

God's free light and air, 
Wild flowers of the secret woods, when 

Edwin found us there, 
Wild woods in which we roved with him, 

and heard his passionate vow, 
Wild woods in which we rove no more, 

if we be parted now ! 

XXII 

You will not leave me thus in grief to 
wander forth forlorn ; 



We never changed a bitter word, not 
once since we were born ; 

Our dying mother join'd our hands ; she 
knew this father well ; 

She bad us love, like souls in Heaven, 
and now I fly from Hell, 



And you with me ; and we shall light 

upon some lonely shore, 
Some lodge within the waste sea-dunes, 

and hear the waters roar, 
And see the ships from out the West go 

dipping thro' the foam. 
And sunshine on that sail at last which 

brings our Edwin home. 



But look, the morning grows apace, and 

lights the old church-tower, 
And lights the clock ! the hand points 

five — O me — it strikes the hour — 
I bide no more, I meet my fate, whatever 

ills betide ! 
Arise, my own true sister, come forth ! 

the world is wide. 



And yet my heart is ill at ease, my eyes 

are dim with dew, 
I seem to see a new-dug grave up yonder 

by the yew ! 
If we should never more return, but 

wander hand in hand 
With breaking hearts, without a friend, 

and in a distant land. 



O sweet, they tell me that the world is 

hard, and harsh of mind. 
But can it be so hard, so harsh, as those 

that should be kind ? 
That matters not : let come what will ; 

at last the end is sure, 
And every heart that loves with truth is 

equal to endure. 



TOMORROW 



TOMORROW 



Her, that yer Honour was spakin' to? 

Whin, yer Honour ? last year — 
Standin' here be the bridge, when last 

yer Honour was here ? 
An' yer Honour ye gev her the top of the 

mornin', ' Tomorra ' says she. 
What did they call her, yer Honour ? 

They call'd her Molly Magee. 
An' yer Honour's the thrue ould blood 

that always manes to be kind. 
But there's rason in all things, yer 

Honour, for IVIolly was out of her 

mind. 



Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night 

comin' down be the sthrame. 
An' it seems to me now like a bit of 

yisther-day in a dhrame — 
Here where yer Honour seen her — there 

was but a slip of a moon, 
But I hard thim — Molly Magee wid her 

batchelor, Danny O'Roon — 
' You've been takin' a dhrop o' the 

crathur ' an' Danny says ' Troth, 

an' I been 
Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea 

at Katty's shebeen ; i 
But I must be lavin' ye soon.' * Ochone 

are ye goin' away ? ' 
' Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate ' he 

says ' over the say ' — 
' An' whin will ye meet me agin ? ' an' I 

hard him ' Molly asthore, 
I'll meet you agin tomorra,' says he, 'be 

the chapel-door.' 
'An' whin are ye goin' to lave me?' 

' O' Monday mornin' ' says he ; 
' An' shure thin ye'U meet me tomorra ? ' 

' Tomorra, tomorra, Machree ! ' 
Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honour, 

that had no likin' for Dan, 
Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to 

come away from the man, 

1 Grog-shop. 



An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass mc, 

as light as a lark, 
An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' 

thin wint into the dark. 
But wirrah ! the storm that night — the 

tundher, an' rain that fell. 
An' the sthrames runnin' down at the 

back o' the glin 'ud 'a dhrownded 

Hell. 



But airth was at pace nixt mornin', an' 

Hiven in its glory smiled, 
As the Holy Mother o' Glory that smiles 

at her sleepin' child — 
Ethen — she stept an the chapel -green, 

an' she turn'd herself roun' 
Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for 

Danny was not to be foun'. 
An' many's the time that I watch'd her 

at mass lettin' down the tear, 
For the Divil a Danny was there, yer 

Honour, for forty year. 



Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the 

rose an' the white o' the May, 
An' yer hair as black as the night, an' 

yer eyes as bright as the day ! 
Achora, yer laste little whishper was 

sweet as the lilt of a bird ! 
Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music 

wid ivery word ! 
An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in 

sich an illigant han'. 
An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was 

as light as snow an the Ian', 
An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver 

ye walkt in the shtreet. 
An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' 

laid himself undher yer feet, 
An' I loved ye meself wid a heart and a 

half, me darlin', and he 
'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss 

of ye, Molly Magee. 



But shure we wor betther frinds whin I 
crack'd his skull for her sake, 



TOMORROW 



\n' he ped me back wid the best he 

could give at ould Donovan's 

wake — 
' 11 ihe boys wor ibout her agin whin 

Dan didn't come to the fore, 
.v:;' Shanras al'-ng wid the rest, but she 

fjut thim all to the door. 
An', afther, I thried her meself av the 

bird 'ud come to me call, 
But Molly, begorrah, 'ud listhen to 

naither at all, at all. 



An' her nabours an' frinds 'ud consowl an' 

condowl wid her, airly and late, 
' Your Danny,' they says, ' niver crasst 

over say to the Sassenach whate ; 
He's gone to the States, aroon, an' he's 

married another wife. 
An' ye'U niver set eyes an the face of 

the thraithur agin in life ! 
An' to dhrame of a married man, death 

alive, is a mortial sin.' 
But Molly says ' I'd his hand-promise, an' 

shure he'll meet me agin.' 



An' afther her paarints had inter'd glory, 

an' both in wan day. 
She began to spake to herself, the 

crathur, an' whishper, and say 
' Tomorra, Tomorra ! ' an' Father Mo- 

lowny he tuk her in han', 
'Molly, you're manin',' he says, 'me 

dear, av I undherstan'. 
That ye'll meet your paarints agin an' 

yer Danny O'Roon afore God 
Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints ' ; 

an' she gev him a frindly nod, 
' Tomorra, Tomorra,' she says, an' she 

didn't intind to desave, 
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was 

as white as the snow an a grave. 



Arrah now, here last month they wor 
diggin' the bog, an' they foun' 

Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp 
lyin' undher groun'. 



Ycr Honour's own agint, he says to me i 

wanst, at Katty's shebeen, 
' The Divil take all the black Ian', for a 

blessin' 'ud come wid the green !' 
An' where 'ud the poor man, thin, cut 

his bit o' turf for the fire ? 
But och ! bad scran to the bogs whin 

they swallies the man intire ! 
An' sorra the bog that's in Hiven wid all 

the light an' the glow, 
An' there's hate enough, shure, widout 

thim in the Divil's kitchen below. 



Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I hard 

his Riverence say. 
Could keep their haithen kings in the 

flesh for the Jidgemint day. 
An', faix, be the piper o' Moses, they kep 

the cat an' the dog. 
But it 'ud 'a been aisier work av they 

lived be an Irish bog. 



How-an-iver they laid this body they 

foun' an the grass 
Be the chapel-door, an' the people 'ud 

see it that wint in to mass — 
But a frish gineration had riz, an' most 

of the ould was few. 
An' I didn't know him meself, an' none 

of the parish knew. 



But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick, 

she was lamed iv a knee, 
Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, * Div ye 

know him, Molly Magee ? ' 
An' she stood up strait as the Queen of 

the world — she lifted her head — 
' He said he would meet me tomorra ! ' 

an' dhropt down dead an the dead. 



Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye 
would start back agin into life, 

Whin we laid yez, aich by aich, at yer 
wake like husban' an' wife. 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS 



557 



Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet fen- 

the frinds that was gone ! 
Sorra the silent throat but we hard it 

cryin' ' Ochone ! ' 
An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten 

childer, hansome an' tall, 
Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if he 

had lost thim all. 



Thin his Riverence buried thim both in 
wan grave be the dead boor-tree,^ 

The young man Danny O'Roon wid his 
ould woman, Molly Magee. 



May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim blossom 

an' spring from the grass, 
Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other — as ye 

did — over yer Crass ! 
An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid his 

song to the Sun an' the Moon, 
An' tell thim in Hiven about Molly Magee 

an' her Danny O'Roon, 
Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays 

an' opens the gate ! 
An' shure, be the Crass, that's betther 

nor cuttin' the Sassenach whate 
To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an' 

Saints an' Marthyrs galore. 
An' singin' yer ' Aves ' an' ' Fathers ' for 

iver an' ivermore. 



An' now that I tould yer Honour what- 

iver I hard an' seen, 
Yer Honour 'ill give me a thrifle to dhrink 

yer health in potheen. 

THE SPINSTER'S SWEET- 
ARTS 



Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it mun 

be the time about now 
When Molly cooms in fro' the far-end 

close wi' her paails fro' the cow. 
1 Elder- tree. 



Eh ! tha be new to the plaace — thou'rt 
gaiipin' — doesn't tha see 

I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was 
sweet upo' me ? 



Naiiy to be sewer it be past 'er time. 

What maakes 'er sa laate ? 
Goa to the laane at the back, an' loook 

thruf Maddison's gaate ! 

Ill 

Sweet -arts ! Molly belike may 'a lighted 

to-night upo' one. 
Sweet-arts ! thanks to the Lord that I 

niver not listen'd to noan ! 
So I sits i' my oan armchair wi' my oan 

kettle theere o' the hob. 
An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the 

second, an' Steevie an' Rob. 



Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou 

sees that i' spite o' the men 
I 'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two 

'oonderd a-year to mysen ; 
Yis ! thaw tha call'd me es pretty es ony 

lass i' the Shere ; 
An' thou be es pretty a Tabby, but Robby 

I seed thruf ya theere. 



Feyther 'ud saay I wur ugly es sin, an' I 

beant not va'ain. 
But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw 

soom 'ud 'a thowt ma plaain. 
An' I wasn't sa plaain i' pink ribbons, ye 

said I wur pretty i' pinks. 
An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beant 

sich a fool as ye thinks ; 
Ye was stroakin ma down wi' the 'air, as 

I be a-stroakin o' you. 
But whiniver I loooked i' the glass I wur 

sewer that it couldn't be true ; 
Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd it 

wur pleasant to 'ear. 
Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, but 

my two 'oonderd a-year. 



558 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET- ARTS 



VI 

D'ya mind the murnin' when we was a- 

walkin' togither, an' stood 
By the cla'ay'd-oop pond, that the foalk 

be sa scared at, i' Gigglesby wood, 
Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, 

black Sal, es 'ed been disgraaced ? 
An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur a- 

creejipin about my waaist ; 
An' me es wur alius afear'd of a man's 

gittin' ower fond, 
I sidled awaay an' awaay till I plumpt foot 

fust i' the pond ; 
And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa well, 

as I did that da'ay. 
Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha hoickt 

my feet wi' a flop fro' the claay. 
Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop thy 

taail, tha may gie ma a kiss, 
Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam 

an wur niver sa nigh saayin' Yis. 
But wa boath was i' sich a clat we was 

shaamed to cross GigglesbyGreean, 
Fur a cat may loook at a king thou knaws 

but the cat mun be clean. 
Sa we boath on us kep out o' sight o' the 

winders o' Gigglesby Hinn — 
Naay, but the claws o' tha ! quiet ! they 

pricks clean thruf to the skin — 
An' wa boath slinkt 'oam by the brokken 

shed i' the laane at the back, 
Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha once, an' 

thou runn'd oop o' the thack ; 
An' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, 

fur theere we was forced to 'ide. 
Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', and 

one o' the Tommies beside. 



Theere now, what art'a mewin at, Steevie ? 

for owt I can tell — 
Robby wur fust to be sewer, or I mowt 

'a liked tha as well. 



But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the while 
I wur chaangin' my gown. 

An' I thowt shall I chaange my staate ? 
but, O Lord, upo' coomin' down — 



My bran-new carpet es fresh es a midder 

o' flowers i' Maay — 
Why 'edn't tha wiped thy shoes ? it wur 

clatted all ower wi' claay. 
An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I seed 

that it couldn't be, 
An' Robby I gied tha a raatin that sattled 

thy coortin o' me. 
An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we was 

a-cleanin' the floor, 
That a man be a durty thing an' a trouble 

an' plague wi' indoor. 
But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to 

tha moor na the rest. 
But r couldn't 'a lived wi' a man an' I 

knaws it be all fur the best. 



Naay — let ma stroak tha down till I 

maakes tha es smooth es silk, 
But if I 'ed married tha, Robby, thou'd 

not 'a been worth thy milk, 
Thou'd niver 'a cotch'd ony mice but 'a 

left me the work to do. 
And 'a taaen to the bottle beside, so es 

all that I 'ears be true ; 
But I loovs tha to maake thysen 'appy, 

an' soa purr awaay, my dear, 
Thou 'ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaay fro' 

my oan two 'oonderd a-year. 



Swearin agean, you Toms, as ye used to 

do twelve year sin' ! 
Ye niver 'eard Steevie swear 'cep' it wur 

at a dog coomin' in, 
An' boath o' ye mun be fools to be hallus 

a-shawin' your claws. 
Fur I niver cared nothink for neither — 

an' one o' ye dead ye knaws ! 
Coom give hoaver then, weant ye ? I 

warrant ye soom fine daay — 
Theere, lig down — I shall hev to gie one 

or tother awaay. 
Can't ye taake pattern by Steevie ? ye 

shant hev a drop fro' the paail. 
Steevie be right good manners bang thruf 

to the tip o' the taail. 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET- ARTS 



559 



Robby, git down wi'tha, wiit tha? let 

Steevie coom oop o' my knee. 
Steevie, my lad, thou 'ed very nigh been 

the Steevie fur me ! 
Robby wur fust to be sewer, 'e wur burn 

an' bred i' the 'ouse, 
But thou be es 'ansom a tabby es iver 

patted a mouse. 



An' I beant not vaain, but I knaws I 'ed 

led tha a quieter life 
Nor her wi' the hepitaph yonder ! "A 

faiiithful an' loovin' wife ! " 
An' 'cos o' thy farm by the beck, an' th}- 

windmill oop o' the croft, 
Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did tha? 

but that wur a bit ower soft, 
Thaw thou was es soaber es daay, wi' a 

niced red faace, an' es clean 
Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a bran- 
new 'eiid o' the Queean, 
An' thy farmin' es clean es thysen', fur, 

Steevie, tha kep' it sa neat 
That I niver not spied sa much es a 

poppy along wi' the wheat, 
An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' 

seeadin' tha haiited to see ; 
'Twur es bad es a battle-twig ^ 'ere i' my 

oan blue chaumber to me. 
Ay, roob thy whiskers agean ma, fur I 

could 'a ta'aen to tha well, 
But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a 

bouncin' boy an' a gell. 



An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I 

be mysen o' my cats. 
But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I 

hevn't naw likin' fur brats ; 
Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, 

an' they goas fur a walk, 
Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' 

doesn't not 'inder the talk ! 
But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky 

bibs, an' the clats an' the clouts, 

1 Earwig. 



An' their mashin' their toys to pieaces 

an' maakin' ma deaf wi' their 

shouts, 
An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they 

was set upo' springs, 
An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' 

saayin' ondecent things, 
An' a-callin' ma ' hugly ' mayhap to my 

faace, or a tearin' my gown — 
Dear ! dear ! dear ! I mun part them 

Tommies — Steevie git down. 



Ve be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. 

I tell'd ya, na moor o' that ! 
Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother 

Tom 'ere o' the mat. 



Theere ! I ha' master'd thevi ! Hed I 

married the Tommies — O Lord, 
To loove an' oba'ay the Tommies ! I 

couldn't 'a stuck by my word. 
To be horder'd about, an' waaked, when 

Molly 'd put out the light, 
By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at ony 

hour o' the night ! 
An' the taable staain'd wi' 'is aale, an' the 

mud o' 'is boots o' the stairs, 
An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, 

an' the mark o' 'is 'ead o' the 

chairs ! 
An' noiin o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a let 

me 'a hed my oan waay, 
Sa I likes 'em best wi' taiiils when they 

'evn't a word to saay. 



An' I sits i' my oan little parlour, an' 
sarved by my oan little lass, 

Wi' my oan little garden outside, an' my 
oan bed o' sparrow-grass. 

An' my o'an door-poorch wi' the wood- 
bine an' jessmine a-dressin' it 
gree'an. 

An' my oan fine Jackman i' purple a 
roiibin' the 'ouse like a Queean. 



560 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



An' the little galls bobs to ma hoffens es 

I be abroad i' the laanes, 
When I goas fur to coomfut the poor es 

be down wi' their haaches an' 

their paains : 
An' a haaf-pot o' jam, or a mossel o' meat 

when it beant too dear, 
They maakes ma a graater Laady nor 'er 

i' the mansion theer, 
Hes 'es hallus to hax of a man how much 

to spare or to spend ; 
An' a spinster I be an' I will be, if soa 

please God, to the hend. 



XVIII 

Mew ! mew ! — Bess wi' the milk ! what 

ha maade our Molly sa la'ate ? 
It should 'a been 'ere by seven, an' theere 

— it be strikin' height — 
' Cushie wur craazed fur 'er cauf ' well — I 

'eard 'er a maakin' 'er moan, 
An' I thowt to mysen ' thank God that I 

hevn't naw cauf o' my oan.' 
Theere ! 

Set it down ! 

Now Robby ! 

You Tommies shall waait to-night 
Till Robby an' Steevie 'es 'ed their lap 

— an' it sarves ye right. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 
SIXTY YEARS AFTER 



Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts, 
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts, 

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call, 
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall. 

So — your happy suit was blasted — she the faultless, the divine ; 
And you liken — boyish babble — this boy-love of yours with mine. 

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past ; 

Babble, babble ; our old England may go down in babble at last. 

' Curse him ! ' curse your fellow- victim ? call him dotard in your rage ? 
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age. 

Jilted for a wealthier ! wealthier ? yet perhaps she was not wise ; 
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes. 

In the hall there hangs a painting — Amy's arms about my neck — 
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck. 

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown ; 
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone. 

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake ? 
You, not you ! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make. 

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child ; 

But your Judith — but your worldling — she had never driven me wild. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER 561 

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring, 
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring. 

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life, 

While she vows 'till death shall part us,' she the would-be-widow wife. 

She the worldling born of worldlings — father, mother — be content, 
Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent. 

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground. 
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound. 

Cross'd ! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride ; 
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died. 

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood, 
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood. 

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer, 
Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley — there. 

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled. 

Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the child. 

Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now — 

I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow. 

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears. 
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years. 

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away. 
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. 

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones. 
All his virtues — I forgive them — black in white above his bones. 

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe, 
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go. 

Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran. 
She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man, 

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, yet so lowly-sweet, 
Woman to her inmost heart, and woman to her tender feet, 

Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind. 

She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind. 

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the coast. 
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost. 

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea ; 
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me. 

T 2 



562 LOCKSLEY HALL 



Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone, 
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own. 

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave ; 
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave, 

Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all, 
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall ! 

Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, but kept the deck, 
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck, 

Gone for ever ! Ever ? no — for since our dying race began, 
Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man. 

Those that in barbarian burials kill'd the slave, and slew the wife 
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life. 

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night ; 
Ev'n the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white. 

Truth for truth, and good for good ! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just- 
Take the charm ' For ever ' from them, and they crumble into dust. 

Gone the cry of ' Forward, Forward,' lost within a growing gloom ; 
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb. 

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space. 
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace ! 

* Forward ' rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one. 
Let us hush this cry of ' Forward ' till ten thousand years have gone. 

Far among the vanish' d races, old Assyrian kings would flay 
Captives whom they caught in battle — iron-hearted victors they. 

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls, 
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls. 

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names, 
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames. 

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great ; 
Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate. 

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse : 
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller ? which was worse ? 

France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good ; ' 
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood. 

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun — 
Crown'd with sunlight — over darkness — from the still unrisen sun. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER 563 

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan ? 

' Kill your enemy, for you liate him,' still, ' your enemy' was a man. 

Have we sunk below them ? peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive 
Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier brutes alive. 

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers — burnt at midnight, found at morn, 
Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn. 

Clinging to the silent mother ! Are we devils ? are we men ? 
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again. 

He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers 

Sisters, brothers — and the beasts — whose pains are hardly less than ours ! 

Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! who can tell how all will end ? 

Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend. 

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past, 

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last. 

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise : 

When was age so cramm'd with menace ? madness ? written, spoken lies ? 

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn. 
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, ' Ye are equals, equal-born.' 

Equal-born ? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat. 
Charm us. Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat, 

Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom 
Larger than the Lion, — Demos end in working its own doom. 

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her ? shall we yield ? 
Pause ! before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field. 

Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now. 

Shall we hold them ? shall we loose them ? take the suffrage of the plow. 

Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you. 
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true. 

Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find 
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind, 

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar ; 
So the Pligher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher. 

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine ; 
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine. 

Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! once again the sickening game ; 
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name. 



564 LOCKSLE V HALL 



Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all ; 
Step by step we rose to greatness, — thro' the tonguesters w^e may fall. 

You that woo the Voices — tell them ' old experience is a fool,' 
Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule. 

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place ; 
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face. 

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street, 
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet. 

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope, 

Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the slope. 

Authors — essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part, 
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art. 

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare ; 

Down with Reticence, down with Reverence — forward — naked — let them stare. 

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer ; 
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure. 

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism,— 
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm. 

Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men ; 
Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again ? 

Only ' dust to dust ' for me that sicken at your lawless din, 
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin. 

Heated am I ? you — you wonder — well, it scarce becomes mine age — 
Patience ! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage. 

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep ? 
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep ? 

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray : 
After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May ? 

After madness, after massacre. Jacobinism and Jacquerie, 
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see ? 

I When the schemes and all the systems. Kingdoms and Republics fall, 
1 Something kindlier, higher, holier — all for each and each for all ? 



All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth ; 
All the millions one at length with all the visions of my youth ? 

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind -• 
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind ? 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER 565 

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue — 
I have seen her far away — for is not Earth as yet so young ? — 

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion kill'd, 
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd, 

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles, 
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles, 

Warless ? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then — 
All her harvest all too narrow — who can fancy warless men ? 

Warless ? war will die out late then. Will it ever ? late or soon ? 
Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon ? 

Dead the new astronomy calls her. ... On this day and at this hour, 
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower, 

Here we met, our latest meeting — Amy — sixty years ago — 
She and I — the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow, 

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now — 

Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. . . . 

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass ! 
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass. 

Venus near her ! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours, 
Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers. 

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things. 
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. 

Hesper — Venus — were we native to that splendour or in Mars, 
We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars. 

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite, 
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light ? 

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair. 

Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, 'Would to God that we were there'? 

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the immeasurable sea, 
Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me. 

All the suns — are these but symbols of innumerable man, 
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan ? 

Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in every peopled sphere ? 
Well be grateful for the sounding watchword ' Evolution ' here, 

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good. 
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud. 



566 LOCKSLE V HALL 



VSHiat are men that He should heed us ? cried the king of sacred song ; 
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong, 

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way, 
. All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day. 

Many an ^on moulded earth before her highest, man, was born, 
Many an /Eon too may pass when earth is manless and forlorn. 

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded — pools of salt, and plots of land — 
Shallow skin of green and azure — chains of mountain, grains of sand ! 

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by, 
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye, 

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul ; 
Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole. 



Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate. 
Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to-morrow — you, you come so late. 

Wreck'd — your train — or all but wreck'd ? a shatter'd wheel ? a vicious boy ! 
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy ? 

Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time, 
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime ? 

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet. 
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street. 

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread. 
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. 

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, 
And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor. 

Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I — 
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry. 

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night ; 
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light. 

Light the fading gleam of Even ? light the glimmer of the dawn ? 
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn. 

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be 
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me. 

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly -best. 
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest ? 

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve, 
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER 567 



Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! Death and Silence hold their own. 
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone. • 

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire, 
Kindly landlord, boon companion — youthful jealousy is a liar. 

Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the madness from your brain. 
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain. 

Youthful ! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school, 
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool. 

Yonder lies our young sea-village — Art and Grace are less and less : 
Science grows and Beauty dwindles — roofs of slated hideousness ! 

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield. 
Till the peasant cow shall butt the ' Lion passant ' from his Aeld. 

Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence, 
In the common deluge drowning old political common-sense ! 

Poor old voice of eighty crpng after voices that have fled ! 
All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are on the dead. 

All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom disappears, 
Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years. 



In this Hostel — I remember — I repent it o'er his grave — 

Like a clown — by chance he met me — I refused the hand he gave. 

From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks— 
I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six — 

While I shelter'd in this archway from a day of driving showers — 
Peept the winsome face of Edith like a flower among the flowers. 

Plere to-night ! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Chapel bell ! 
Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, ' I have loved thee well.' 

Then a peal that shakes the portal — one has come to claim his bride, 

Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, and started from my side — 

Silent echoes ! You, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day. 
Move among your people, know them, follow him who led the way, 

Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother men, 

Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised the school, and drain'd the fen. 

Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him ? who shall swear it cannot be ? 
Earth would never touch her worst, were one in fifty such as he. 

Ere she gain her Heavenly-best, a God must mingle with the game : 
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor name, 



568 PROLOGUE THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 

Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of III, 
Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will. 

Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine. 
Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine. 

Follow Light, and do the Right — for man can half-control his doom — 
Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb. 

Forward, let the stonny moment fly and mingle with the Past. 

I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last. 

Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will bear the pall ; 
Then I leave thee Lord and Master, latest Lord of Locksley Hali» 



PROLOGUE 
TO GENERAL HAMLEY 

Our birches yellowing and from each 

The light leaf falling fast, 
While squirrels from our fiery beech 

Were bearing off the mast. 
You came, and look'd and loved the view 

Long-known and loved by me, 
Green Sussex fading into blue 

With one gray glimpse of sea ; 
And, gazing from this height alone. 

We spoke of what had been 
Most marvellous in the wars your own 

Crimean eyes had seen ; 
And now — like old-world inns that take 

Some warrior for a sign 
That therewithin a guest may make 

True cheer with honest wine — 
Because you heard the lines I read 

Nor utter'd word of blame, 
I dare without your leave to head 

These rhymings with your name, 
Who know you but as one of those 

I fain would meet again, 
Yet know you, as your England knows 

That you and all your men 
Were soldiers to her heart's desire 

When, in the vanish'd year. 
You saw the league-long rampart-fire 

Flare from Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven, 

And Wolseley overthrew 
Arabi, and the stars in heaven 

Paled, and the glory grew. 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY 
BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA 

October 25, 1S54 



The charge of the gallant three hundred, 

the Heavy Brigade ! 
Down the hill, down the hill, thousands 

of Russians, 
Thousands of horsemen, drew to the 

valley — and stay'd ; 
For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred 

were riding by 
Wlien the points of the Russian lances 

arose in the sky ; 
And he call'd ' Left wheel into line ! ' 

and they wheel'd and obey'd. 
Then • he look'd at the host that had 

halted he knew not why. 
And he turn'd half round, and he bad his 

trumpeter sound 
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as 

he waved his blade 
To the gallant three hundred whose glory 

will never die — 
' Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, up 

the hill, 
Follow'd the Lleavy Brigade. 



The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, 
and the might of the fight ! 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEA FY BRIGADE 



569 



Thousands of horsemen had gather'd 

there on the height, 
With a wing push'd out to the left and 

a wing to the right, 
And who shall escape if they close ? but 

he dash'd up alone 
Thro' the great gray slope of men, 
Sway'd his sabre, and held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then ; 
All in a moment follow'd with force 
Three that were next in their fiery 

course. 
Wedged themselves in between horse 

and horse, 
Fought for their lives in the narrow gap 

they had made — 
Four amid thousands ! and up the hill, 

up the hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the 

Heavy Brigade. 

Ill 

Fell like a cannonshot, 

Burst like a thunderbolt, 

Crash'd like a hurricane, 

Broke thro' the mass from below, 

Drove thro' the midst of the foe. 

Plunged up and down, to and fro. 

Rode flashing blow upon blow, 

Brave Inniskillens and Greys 

WTiirling their sabres in circles of light ! 

And some of us, all in amaze, 

Who were held for a while from the 

fight. 
And were only standing at gaze, 
When the dark-mufiled Russian crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and the 

right. 
And roU'd them around like a cloud, — 
O mad for the charge and the battle 

were we. 
When our own good redcoats sank from 

sight, 
Like drops of blood in a dark -gray 

sea. 
And we turn'd to each other, whispering, 

all dismay'd, 
* Lost are the gallant three hundred of 

Scarlett's Brigade ! ' 



' Lost one and all ' were the words 
Mutter'd in our dismay ; 
But they rode like Victors and Lords 
Thro' the forest of lances and swords 
In the heart of the Russian hordes. 
They rode, or they stood at bay — 
Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 
Down with the bridle-hand drew 
The foe from the saddle and threw 
Underfoot there in the fray — 
Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock 
In the wave of a stormy day ; 
Till suddenly shock upon shock 
Stagger'd the mass from without, 
Drove it in wild disarray. 
For our men gallopt up with a cheer and 

a shout. 
And the foeman surged, and waver 'd, and 

reel'd 
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out 

of the field. 
And over the brow and away. 



Glory to each and to all, and the charge 

that they made ! 
Glory to all the three hundred, and all 

the Brigade ! 

Note. —The ' three hundred ' of the ' Heavy- 
Brigade ' who made this famous charge were the 
Scots Greys and the 2nd squadron of Inniskil- 
lings ; the remainder of the ' Heavy Brigade ' 
subsequently dashing up to their support. 

The ' three ' were Scarlett's aide - de - camp, 
Elliot, and the trumpeter and Shegog the orderly 
who had been close behind him. 



EPILOGUE 



Irene 



Not this way will you set your name 
A star among the stars. 



Poet 



What way ? 



570 



TO VIRGIL 



Irene 

You praise when you should blame 
The barbarism of wars. 
A juster epoch has begun. 

Poet 

Yet tho' this cheek be gray, 
And that bright hair the modern sun, 

Those eyes the blue to-day, 
You wrong me, passionate little friend. 

I would that wars should cease, 
I would the globe from end to end 

Might sow and reap in peace, 
And some new Spirit o'erbear the old, 

Or Trade re-frain the Powers 
From war with kindly links of gold, 

Or Love with wreaths of flowers. 
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all 

My friends and brother souls. 
With all the peoples, great and small. 

That wheel between the poles. 
But since, our mortal shadow. 111 

To waste this earth began — 
Perchance from some abuse of Will 

In worlds before the man 
Involving ours — he needs must fight 

To make true peace his own, 
Pie needs must combat might with might. 

Or Might would rule alone ; 
And who loves War for War's own sake 

Is fool, or crazed, or worse ; 
But let the patriot-soldier take 

His meed of fame in verse ; 
Nay — tho' that realm were in the wrong 

For which her warriors bleed. 
It still were right to crown with song 

The warrior's noble deed — 
A crown the Singer hopes may last. 

For so the deed endures ; 
But Song will vanish in the Vast ; 

And that large phrase of yours 
' A Star among the stars,' my dear. 

Is girlish talk at best ; 
For dare we dally with the sphere 

As he did half in jest, 
Old Horace ? ' I will strike ' said he 

'The stars with head sublime,' 
But scarce could see, as now we see. 

The man in Space and Time, 



So drew perchance a happier lot 

Than ours, who rhyme to-day. 
The fires that arch this dusky dot — 

Yon myriad-worlded way — 
The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze. 

World-isles in lonely skies, 
Whole heavens within themselves, amaze 
• Our brief humanities ; 
And so does Earth ; for Homer's fame, 

Tho' carved in harder stone — 
The falling drop will make his name 

As mortal as my own. 



No! 



Irene 



Poet 



Let it live then — ay, till when ? 

Earth passes, all is lost 
In what they prophesy, our wise men, 

Sun-flame or sunless frost, 
And deed and song alike are swept 

Away, and all in vain 
As far as man can see, except 

The man himself remain ; 
And tho', in this lean age forlorn, 

Too many a voice may cry 
That man can have no after-morn, 

Not yet of these am I. 
The man remains, and whatsoe'er 

He wrought of good or brave 
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year 

That dawns behind the grave. 



And here the Singer for his Art 

Not all in vain may plead 
' The song that nerves a nation's heart, 

Is in itself a deed.' 



TO VIRGIL 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE 
MANTUANS FOR THE NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY OF VIRGIL'S DEATH 



Roman Virgil, thou that singest 

Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, 



THE DEAD PROPHET 



571 



Ilion falling, Rome arising, 

wars, and filial faith, and Dido's 
pyre ; 

II 

Landscape-lover, lord of language 

more than he that sang the Works 
and Days, 
All the chosen coin of fancy 

flashing out from many a golden 
phrase ;• 



Thou that singest wheat and woodland, 
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse 
and herd ; 

All the charm of all the Muses 

often flowering in a lonely word ; 



Poet of the happy Tityrus 

piping underneath his beechen 
bowers ; 
Poet of the poet-satyr 

whom the laughing shepherd 
bound with flowers ; 



Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 

in the blissful years again to be. 

Summers of the snakeless meadow, 

unlaborious earth and oarless sea ; 



VI 

Thou that seest Universal 

Nature moved by Universal 
N Mind ; 

[ Thou majestic in thy sadness 

at the doubtful doom of human 
kind;'^ 

VII 

Light amoiig the vanish'd ages ; 

star that gildest yet this phantom 
shore ; 
Golden branch amid the shadows, 

kings and realms that pass to rise 
no more : 



Now thy Forum roars no longer, 

fallen every purple Caesar's 
dome — 
Tho' thine ocean -roll of rhythm 

sound for ever of Imperial 
Rome — 



IX 

Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, 
and the Rome of freemen holds 
her place, 
I, from out the Northern Island 

sunder'd once from all the human 
race, 



I salute thee, Mantovano, 

I that loved thee since my day 
began, 
Wielder of the stateliest measure 

ever moulded by the lips of man. 



THE DEAD PROPHET 



182- 



Dead ! 

And the Muses cried with a stormy cry 
* Send them no more, for evermore. 

Let the people die.' 



Dead ! 

* Is it he then brought so low ? ' 
And a careless people flock'd from the 
fields 

With a purse to pay for the show. 



Dead, who had served his time. 
Was one of the people's kings, 

Had labour'd in lifting them out of slime, 
And showing them, souls have wings ! 



572 



THE DEAD PROPHET 



Dumb on the winter heath he lay. 

His friends had stript him bare, 
And roll'd his nakedness everyway 

That all the crowd might stare. 



A storm-worn signpost not to be read, 
And a tree with a moulder'd nest 

On its barkless bones, stood stark by the 
dead ; 
And behind him, low in the West, 



With shifting ladders of shadow and light, 
And blurr'd in colour and form, 

The sun hung over the gates of Night, 
And glared at a coming storm. 



Then glided a vulturous Beldam forth, 

That on dumb death had thriven ; 
They call'd her ' Reverence ' here upon 
earth. 
And ' The Curse of the Prophet ' in 
Heaven. 



She knelt — ' We worship him ' — all but 
wept — 

' So great so noble was he ! ' 
She clear'd her sight, she arose, she swept 

The dust of earth from her knee. 

IX 

' Great ! for he spoke and the people 
heard. 
And his eloquence caught like a flame 
From zone to zone of the world, till his 
Word 
Had won him a noble name. 



' Noble ! he sung, and the sweet sound ran 
Thro' palace and cottage door, 

For he touch'd on the whole sad planet 
of man, 
The kings and the rich and the poor ; 



' And he sung not alone of an old sun set, 
But a sun coming up in his youth ! 

Great and noble — O yes — but yet — 
For man is a lover of Truth, 

XII 

' And bound to follow, wherever she go 
Stark-naked, and up or down. 

Thro' her high hill -passes of stainless 
snow. 
Or the foulest sewer of the town — 

XIII 

' Noble and great — O ay — but then, 
Tho' a prophet should have his due, 

Was he noblier-fashion'd than other men ? 
Shall we see to it, I and you ? 



' For since he would sit on a Prophet's 
seat, 
As a lord of the Human soul. 
We needs must scan him from head to 
feet 
Were it but for a wart or a mole ? ' 



His wife and his child stood by him in 
tears, 
But she — she push'd them aside. 
' Tho' a name may last for a thousand 
years, 
Yet a truth is a truth,' she cried. 



And she that had haunted his pathway 
still. 
Had often truckled and cower'd 
When he rose in his wrath, and had 
yielded her will 
To the master, as overpower'd, 

XVII 

She tumbled his helpless corpse about. 

' Small blemish upon the skin ! 
But I think we know what is fair without 

Is often as foul within.' 



EARL V SPRING — MIDNIGHT 



573 



XVIII 

She crouch'd, she tore him part from part, 
And out of his body she drew 

The red ' Blood - eagle ' ^ of liver and 
heart ; 
She held them up to the view ; 



She gabbled, as she groped in the dead, 
And all the people were pleased ; 

' See, what a little heart,' she said, 
' And the liver is half- diseased ! ' 



She tore the Prophet after death, 
And the people paid her well. 

Lightnings flicker'd along the heath ; 
One shriek'd ' The fires of Hell ! ' 



EARLY SPRING 



Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And domes the red-plow'd hills 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds have their wills, 

The throstles too. 



Opens a door in Heaven ; 

From skies of glass 
A Jacob's ladder falls 

On greening grass, 
And o'er the mountain-walls 

Young angels pass. 



Before them fleets the shower, 

And burst the buds. 
And shine the level lands, 

And flash the floods ; 
The stars are from their hands 

Flung thro' the woods, 

1 Old Viking term for lungs, liver, etc., when 
torn by the conqueror out of the body of the 
conquered. 



The woods with living airs 

How softly fann'd. 
Light airs from where the deep, 

All down the sand, 
Is breathing in his sleep, 

Heard by the land. 



O follow, leaping blood, 
The season's lure ! 

O heart, look down and up 
Serene, secure. 

Warm as the crocus cup, 
Like snowdrops, pure ! 



Past, Future glimpse and fade 
Thro' some slight spell, 

A gleam from yonder vale, 
Some far blue fell, 

And sympathies, how frail, 
In sound and smell ! 

VII 

Till at thy chuckled note, 
Thou twinkling bird. 

The fi\iry fancies range. 
And, lightly stirr'd. 

Ring little bells of change 
From word to word. 



For now the Fleavenly Power 
Makes all things new. 

And thaws the cold, and fills 
The flower with dew ; 

The blackbirds have their wills, 
The poets too. 



PREFATORY POEM TO MY 
BROTHER'S SONNETS 

Midnight, June 30, 1879 



Midnight — in no midsummer tune 
The breakers lash the shores : 



574 



F RATER AVE AT QUE VALE' HELEN'S TOWER 



The cuckoo of a joyless June 
Is calling out of doors : 

And thou hast vanish'd from thine own 
To that which looks like rest, 
True brother, only to be known 
By those who love thee best. 



Midnight — and joyless June gone by. 
And from the deluged park 
The cuckoo of a worse July 
Is calling thro' the dark : 

But thou art silent underground, 
And o'er thee streams the rain, 
True poet, surely to be found 
When Truth is found again. 



And, now to these unsummer'd skies 
The summer bird is still, 
Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 
From out a phantom hill ; 

And thro' this midnight breaks the sun 
Of sixty years away. 
The light of days when life begun, 
The days that seem to-day, 

When all my griefs were shared with thee, 
As all niy hopes were thine — 
As all thou wert was one with me, 
May all thou art be mine ! 



'FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE' 
Row us out from Desenzano, to your 



Si 



irmione row 



So they row'd, and there we landed — ' O 

venusta Sirmio ! ' 
There to me thro' all the groves of olive 

in the summer glow. 
There beneath the Roman ruin where the 

purple flowers grow. 
Came that ' Ave atque Vale ' of the Poet's 

hopeless woe, 
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen- 

hundred years ago, 



' Frater Ave atque Vale ' — as we wander'd 
to and fro 

Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the 
Garda Lake below 

Sweet Catullus's all - but - island, olive- 
silvery Sirmio ! 

HELEN'S TOWER 1 

Helen's Tower, here 1 stand, 
Dominant over sea and land. 
Son's love built me, and I hold 
Mother's love in letter'd gold. 
Love is in and out of time, 
I am mortal stone and lime. 
Would my granite girth were strong 
As either love, to last as long ! 
I should wear my crown entire 
To and thro' the Doomsday fire. 
And be found of angel eyes 
In earth's recurring Paradise. 

EPITAPH ON LORD STRAT- j 
FORD DE REDCLIFFE 

In Westminster Abbey 

Thou third great Canning, stand among 
our best 
And noblest, now thy long day's work 
hath ceased, 
Here silent in our Minster of the West 
Who wert the voice of England in the 
East. 

EPITAPH 
ON GENERAL GORDON. 

IN THE GORDON BOYS' NATIONAL 
MEMORIAL HOME NEAR WOKING 

Warrior of God, man's friend, and 
tyrant's foe. 
Now somewhere dead far in the waste 
Soudan, 
Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know 
This earth has never borne a nobler 
man. 

^ Written at the request of my friend, I-ord 
Dufferin. 



EPITAPH ON C A XT ON — FREEDOM 



575 



EPITAPH ON CAXTON 

In St. Margaret's, Westminster 

Fiat Lux (his motto) 

Thy praver was * Light — more Light - 

while Time shall last ! ' 
Thou sawest a glory growing on the night, 
But not the shadows which that light 

would cast, 
Till shadows vanish in the Light of Light. 



TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL 

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to 

know 
The limits of resistance, and the bounds 
Determining concession ; still be bold 
Not only to slight praise but suffer scorn ; 
And be thy heart a fortress to maintain 
The day against the moment, and the 

year 
Against the day ; thy voice, a music 

heard 
Thro' all the yells and counter-yells of 

feud 
And faction, and thy will, a power to 

make 
This ever-changing world of circumstance. 
In changing, chime with never-changing 

Law. 



HANDS ALL ROUND 

First pledge our Queen this solemn 
night. 

Then drink to England, every guest ; 
That man's the best Cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day ; 
That man's the true Conservative 

Who lops the moulder'd branch away. 
Hands all round ! 

God the traitor's hope confound ! 



To this great cause of Freedom drink, 
my friends, 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 

To all the loyal hearts who long 

To keep our English Empire whole ! 
To all our noble sons, the strong 

New England of the Southern Pole ! 
To England under Indian skies, 

To those dark millions of her realm ! 
To Canada whom we love and prize, 
Whatever statesman hold the helm. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great name of England drink, 
my friends. 
And all her glorious empire, round and 
round. 

To all our statesmen so they be 

True leaders of the land's desire ! 
To both our Houses, may they see 

Beyond the borough and the shire ! 
We sail'd wherever ship could sail, 

We founded many a mighty state ; 
Pray God our greatness may not fail 
Thro' craven fears of being great. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, 
my friends. 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 



FREEDOM 



O THOU so fair in summers gone, 
While yet thy fresh and virgin soul 

Informed the pillar'd Parthenon, 
The glittering Capitol ; 



So fair in southern sunshine bathed, 
But scarce of such majestic mien 

As here with forehead vapour-swathed 
In meadows ever green ; 



576 



FREEDOM — TO H.R.H, PRINCESS BEATRICE 



For thou — when Athens reign'd and 
Rome, 
Thy glorious eyes were dimm'd with 
pain 
To mark in many a freeman's home 
The slave, the scourge, the chain ; 

IV 

O follower of the Vision, still 
In motion to the distant gleam, 

Howe'er blind force and brainless will 
May jar thy golden dream 



Of Knowledge fusing class with class, 
Of civic Hate no more to be. 

Of Love to leaven all the mass, 
Till every Soul be free ; 

VI 

Who yet, like Nature, wouldst not mar 
By changes all too fierce and fast 

This order of Her Human Star, 
This heritage of the past ; 

VII 

O scorner of the party cry 

That wanders from the public good, 
Thou — when the nations rear on high 

Their idol smear'd with blood. 



And when they roll their idol down- 
Of saner worship sanely proud ; 

Thou loather of the lawless crown 
As of the lawless crowd ; 



How long thine ever-growing mind 

Hath still'd the blast and strown the 
wave, 

Tho' some of late would raise a wind 
To sing thee to thy grave. 



Men loud against all forms of power — 
Unfurnish'd brows, tempestuous 
tongues — 

Expecting all things in an hour — 
Brass mouths and iron lungs ! 



TO H.R.H. PRINCESS 
BEATRICE 

Two Suns of Love make day of human 

life. 
Which else with all its pains, and griefs, 

and deaths, 
Were utter darkness — one, the Sun of 

dawn 
That brightens thro' the Mother's tender 

eyes, 
And warms the child's awakening world 

— and one 
The later-rising Sun of spousal Love, 
Which from her household orbit draws 

the child 
To move in other spheres. The Mother 

weeps 
At that white funeral of the single life. 
Her maiden daughter's marriage ; and 

her tears 
Are half of pleasure, half of pain — the 

child 
Is happy — ev'n in leaving her ! but Thou, 
True daughter, whose all-faithful, filial 

eyes 
Have seen the lonelinessof earthly thrones. 
Wilt neither quit the widow'd Crown 

nor let 
This later light of Love have risen in vain. 
But moving thro' the Mother's home, 

between 
The two that love thee, lead a summer 

life, 
Sway'd by each Love, and swaying to 

each Love, 
Like some conjectured planet in mid 

heaven 
Between two Suns, and drawing down 

from both 
The light and genial warmth of double day. 



THE FLEET 



577 



THE FLEET 1 



You, you, if you shall fail to under- 
stand 
What England is, and what her all-in- 
all, 
On you will come the curse of all the 
land, 
Should this old England fell 

Which Nelson left so great. 

1 The speaker said that ' he should like to 
be assured that other outlying portions of the 
Empire, the Crown colonies, and important 
coaling stations were being as promptly and as 
thoroughly fortified as the various capitals of the 
self-governing colonies. He was credibly in- 
formed this was not so. It was impossible, also, 
not to feel some degree of anxiety about the 
efficacy of present provision to defend and pro- 
tect, by means of swift well-armed cruisers, the 
immense mercantile fleet of the Empire. A third 
source of anxiety, so far as the colonies were 
concerned, was the apparently insufficient provi- 
sion for the rapid manufacture of armaments and 
their prompt despatch when ordered to their 
colonial destination. Hence the necessity for 
manufacturing appliances equal to the require- 
ments, not of Great Britain alone, but of the 
whole Empire. But the keystone of the whole 
was the necessity for an overwhelmingly powerful 
fleet and efficient defence for all necessarj^ coaling 
stations. This was as essential for the colonies 
as for Great Britain. It was the one condition 
for the continuance of the Empire. All that 
Continental Powers did with respect to armies 
England should effect with her navy. It was 
essentially a defensive force, and could be moved 
rapidly from point to point, but it should be equal 
to all that was expected from it. It was to 
strengthen the fleet that colonists would first 
readily tax themselves, because they realised how 
essential a powerful fleet was to the safety, not 
only of that extensive commerce sailing in every 
sea, but ultimately to the security of the distant 
portions of the Empire. Who could estimate the 
loss involved in even a brief period of disaster to 
the Imperial Navy? Any amount of money 
timely expended in preparation would be quite 
insignificant when compared with the possible 
calamity he had referred to.' — Extract from Sir 
Graham Berry's Speech at the Colonial Insti- 
tute, gtk Nozieviber i886. 



His isle, the mightiest Ocean-power on 
earth, 
Our own fair isle, the lord of every sea — 
Her fuller franchise — what would that be 
worth — 
Her ancient fame of Free — 

Were she ... a fallen state ? 



Her dauntless army scatter'd, and so 
small. 
Her island - myriads fed from alien 
lands — 
The fleet of England is her all-in-all ; 
Her fleet is in your hands. 

And in her fleet her Fate. 



You, you, that have the ordering of her 
fleet. 
If you should only compass her dis- 
grace. 
When all men starve, the wild mob's 
million feet 
Will kick you from your place. 

But then too late, too late. 



OPENING OF THE INDIAN 
AND COLONIAL EXHIBI- 
TION BY THE QUEEN 

Written at the Reqtiest of the Prince 

of Wales 



Welcome, welcome with one voice ! 
In your welfare we rejoice. 
Sons and brothers that have sent. 
From isle and cape and continent. 
Produce of your field and flood. 
Mount and mine, and primal wood ; 
Works of subtle brain and hand. 
And splendours of the morning land. 
Gifts from every British zone ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 

2 P 



578 



TO W. C. MAC READY 



May we find, as ages run, 
The mother featured in the son ; 
And may yours for ever be 
That old strength and constancy 
Which has made your fathers great 
In our ancient island State, 
And wherever her flag fly. 
Glorying between sea and sky. 
Makes the might of Britain known ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 

Ill 

Britain fought her sons of yore — 
Britain fail'd ; and never more, 
Careless of our growing kin, 
Shall we sin our fathers' sin, 
Men that in a narrower day — 
Unprophetic rulers they — 
Drove from out the mother's nest 
That young eagle of the West 
To forage for herself alone ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 



Sharers of our glorious past. 
Brothers, must we part at last ? 
Shall we not thro' good and ill 
Cleave to one another still ? 
Britain's myriad voices call, 
' Sons, be welded each and all. 
Into one imperial whole, 
One with Britain, heart and soul ! 
One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne 
Britons, hold your own ! 



POETS AND THEIR BIBLIO- 
GRAPHIES 

Old poets foster'd under friendlier skies, 
Old Virgil who would write ten lines, 

they say. 
At dawn, and lavish all the golden 
day 
To make them wealthier in his readers' 
eyes ; 



And you, old popular Horace, you the 
wise 
Adviser of the nine-years-ponder'd lay, 
And you, that wear a wreath of sweeter 
bay, 
Catullus, whose dead songster never dies ; 
If, glancing downward on the kindly 
sphere 
That once had roU'd you round and 

round the Sun, 
You see your Art still shrined in 
human shelves. 
You should be jubilant that you flourish'd 
here 
Before the Love of Letters, overdone. 
Had swampt the sacred poets with 
themselves. 



TO W. C. MACREADY 

1851 

Farewell, Macready, since to-night we 
part ; 
Full - handed thunders often have 

confessed ^ 

Thy power, well -used to move the 
public breast. 
We thank thee with our voice, and from 

the heart. 
Farewell, Macready, since this night we 
part, 
Go, take thine honours home ; rank 

with the best, 
Garrick and statelier Kemble, and 
the rest 
Who made a nation purer through their 

art. 
Thine is it that our drama did not die. 
Nor flicker down to brainless panto- 
mime. 
And those gilt gauds men-children 

swarm to see. 
Farewell, Macready ; moral, grave, 
sublime ; 
Our Shakespeare's bland and universal 
eye 
Dwells pleased, through twice a 
hundred years, on thee. 



QUEEN MARY 

A DRAMA 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 
Queen Mary. 

Philip, King of Naples and Sicily, a/ier^uards King of Spain. 
The Prinxess Elizabeth. 
Reginald Pole, Cardinal and Pa/<al Legate. 
Simon Renard, S/>anis/i Avibassador. 
Le Sieur de NoAihhKS, Frenc/i a ;n/>assador. 
Thomas Cranmer, ArchbisJiop of Canterbury. 

Sir Nicholas Y{^\tw, ArchbisJiop of Yojk ; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. 
Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. 

Lord William Howard, afterguards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral. 
Lord Williams of Thame. Lord Paget. Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Lord CJiancellor. 
Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London. Thomas Thirlby, Bishop of Ely. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt | i^.^.^rectionary Leaders. 

Sir Thomas Stafford J 

Sir Ralph Bagenhall. Sir Robert Southwell. 

Sir Henry Bedingfield. Sir William Cecil. 

Sir Thomas Vf hit^, Lord Mayor of Lotidon. 

The Duke of Alva | attending on Philip. 

The Count de Feria ) 

Peter Martyr. • Father Cole. Father Bourne. 

Villa Garcia. Soto. 

Captain Brett \ Adherents of Wyatt. 

Antho»*^ Knyvett ) 

Peters, Gentlcjiian of Lord Ho-ward. 

Roger, Scrzant to Noailks. William, Servant to Wyatt. 

Stewaru of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter, Mother of Courtenay. 

Lady Clarence "^ 

Lady Magdalen Dacres V Ladies in Waiting to the Queen. 

Alice -' 

Maid of Honour to the Princess Elizabeth. 



i°^^ I two Country Wives. 
Tib ) 



Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament, Two Gentle- 
me.i, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, Gospellers, Marshal- 
men, etc. 



ACT I 

SCENE I. — Aldgate richly 
decorated 

Crowd. Marshalmen 

Alarshalman. Stand back, keep a 
clear lane ! Wlien will her Majesty 
pass, sayst thou ? why now, even now ; 
wherefore draw back your heads and your 



horns before I break them, and make 
what noise you will with your tongues, 
so it be not treason. Long live Queen 
Mary, the lawful and legitimate daughter 
of Harry the Eighth ! Shout, knaves ! 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That's a hard word, 
legitimate ; what does it mean ? 

Second Citizen. It means a bastard. 

Third Citizen. Nay, it means true-born. 



579 



58o 



QUEEN MARY 



First Citizen. Why, didn't the Par- 
liament make her a bastard ? 

Second Citizen. No ; it was the Lady 
Ehzabeth. 

Third Citizen. That was after, man ; 
that was after. 

First Citizen. Then which is the 
bastard ? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be both 
bastards by Act of Parhament and 
Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament 
can make every true-born man of us a 
bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make thee 
a bastard ? thou shouldst know, for thou 
art as white as three Christmasses. 

Oid Nokes {dreamily). Who's a-pass- 
ing ? King Edward or King Richard ? 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It's Harry ! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Mary. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary's a- 
passing ! [^Falls on his hiees. 

Nokes. Let father alone, my masters ! 
he's past your questioning. 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for him, 
then ! thou'rt no such cockerel thyself, 
for thou was born i' the tail end of old 
Harry the Seventh. 

Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bastard - 
making began. I was born true man at 
five in the forenoon i' the tail of old Harry, 
and so they can't make me a bastard. 

Third Citizen. But if Parliament can 
make the Queen a bastard, why, it follows 
all the more that they can make thee one, 
who art fray'd i' the knees, and out at 
elbow, and bald o' the back, and bursten 
at the toes, and down at heels. 

Nokes. I was born of a true man and 
a ring'd wife, and I can't argue upon it ; 
but I and my old woman 'ud burn upon 
it, that would we. 

Marshalmati. What are you cackling 
of bastardy under the Queen's own nose ? 
I'll have you flogg'd and burnt too, by 
the Rood I will. 

First Citizen. He swears by the 
Rood. Whew ! 

Second Citizen. Hark ! the trumpets. 



\The Procession passes, Mary and 

Elizabeth riding side by side, and 

disappears under the gate. 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

down with all traitors ! God save her 

Grace ; and death to Northumberland ! 

{Exeimt. 

Mancnt Two Gentlemen 

First Gentleman. By God's light a 
noble creature, right royal ! 

Second Gentleman. She looks comelier 
than ordinary to - day ; but to my mind 
the Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and 
royal. 

First Getitlevian. I mean the Lady 
Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a 
daughter in her service who reported it) 
that she met the Queen at Wanstead with 
five hundred horse, and the Queen (tho' 
some say they be much divided) took her 
hand, call'd her sweet sister, and kiss'd 
not her alone, but all the ladies of her 
following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in 
her hour of joy ; there will be plenty to 
sunder and unsister them again : this 
Gardiner for one, who is to be made 
Lord Chancellor, and will pounce like a 
wild beast out of his cage to worry 
Cranmer. 

First Gentlema7i. And furthermore, 
my daughter said that when there rose a 
talk of the late rebellion, she spoke even 
of Northumberland pitifully, and of the 
good Lady Jane as a poor innocent child 
who had but obeyed her father ; and 
furthermore, she said that no one in her 
time should be burnt for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look 
for happy times. 

First Gentleman. There is but one 
thing against them. I know not if you 
know. 

Secojid Gentleman. I suppose you 
touch upon the rumour that Charles, the 
master of the world, has offer'd her his 
son Philip, the Pope and the Devil. I 
trust it is but a rumour. 

First Gentleman. She is going now 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



581 



to the Tower to loose the prisoners there, 
and among them Courtenay, to be made 
Earl of Devon, of royal blood, of splendid 
feature, whom the Council and all her 
people wish her to marry. May it be 
so, for we are many of us Catholics, but 
few Papists, and the Hot Gospellers will 
go mad upon it. 

Second Gentleman. Was she not 
betroth'd in her babyhood to the Great 
Emperor himself? 

First Gentlemati. Ay, but he's too 
old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to her 
cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal ; 
but I hear that he too is full of aches and 
broken before his day. 

First Gejitleinan. O, the Pope could 
dispense with his Cardinalate, and his 
achage, and his breakage, if that were all : 
will you not follow the procession ? 

Second Gentletnan. No ; I have seen 
enough for this day. 

First Gentleman. Well, I shall follow ; 
if I can get near enough I shall judge 
with my own eyes whether her Grace in- 
cline to this splendid scion of Plantagenet. 
{Exeunt. 

SCENE II 

A Room in Lambeth Palace 

Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp, 

Frankfort, Zurich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our Bishops from their 

sees 
Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, 

Barlow, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdale ; besides the 

Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and 

Wells— 
Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds 

more ; 
So they report : I shall be left alone. 
No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimerwillnot fly. 

Enter Peter j\Iartyr 

Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer ! were 
there nothing else, your name 



Stands first of those who sign'd the 

Letters Patent 
That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane. 
Cranmer. Stand first it may, but it 

was written last : 
Those that are now her Privy Council, 

sign'd 
Before me : nay, the Judges had pro- 
nounced 
That our young Edward might bequeath 

the crown 
Of England, putting by his father's will. 
Yet I stood out, till Tidward sent for me. 
The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes 
Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent 

hand. 
Damp with the sweat of death, and 

griping mine, 
Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield 
His Church of England to the Papal wolf 
And Mary ; then I could no more — 

sign'd. 
Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, 
She cannot pass her traitor Council by, 
To make me headless. 

Peter Martyr. That might be forgiven. 
I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own 
The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : 
Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step, 

Thro' many voices crying right and left. 
Have I climb'd back into the primal 

church, 
And stand within the porch, and Christ 

with me : 
My flight were such a scandal to the faith, 
The downfall of so many simple souls, 
I dare not leave my post. 

Peter Martyr. But you divorced 

Queen Catharine and her father ; hence, 

her hate 
Will burn till you are burn'd. 

Ci-anmer. I cannot help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were with 

me. 
'Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife.' 

— 'Tis written, 
' They shall be childless.' True, Mary 

was born. 



582 



QUEEN MARY 



But France would not accept her for a 

bride 
As being born from incest ; and this 

wrought 
Upon the king ; and child by child, you 

know, 
Were momentary sparkles out as quick 
Almost as kindled ; and he brought his 

doubts 
And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for him 
He did believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the 

time 
That should already have seen your steps 

a mile 
From me and Lambeth ? God be with 

you ! Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a 

letter you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd 

you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen. 

Cranmer. It was a wheedling monk 
Set up the mass. 

Peter Martyr. I know it, my good 

Lord. 
But you so bubbled over with hot terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, 
She never will forgive you. Fly, my 

Lord, fly ! 
Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant 

me power to burn ! 
Peter Martyr. They have given me a 

safe conduct : for all that 
I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you, 
Dear friend, for the last time ; farewell, 

and fly. 
Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and let 

me die the death. 

\Exit Peter Martyr. 

Enter Old Servant 

O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's 

Ofiicers 
Are here in force to take you to the Tower. 
Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit 
them. I will go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. 

\Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— St. Paul's Cross 

Father Bou rne in the pulpit. A crowd. 
Marchioness of Exeter, Courte- 

NAY. The SlEUR DE NOAILLES and 

his man ROGER in front of the stage. 
Htibbnb. 

Noailles. Hast thou let fall those 
papers in the palace ? 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. ' There will be no peace for 
Mary till Elizabeth lose her head.' 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other, ' Long live 
Elizabeth the Queen ! ' 

Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must tread 
upon them. 

Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a grunting 

here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is 
saying. 

Roger. Quiet a moment, my masters ; 
hear what the shaveling has to say for 
himself. 

Crowd. Hush — hear ! 

Botirne. — and so this unhappy land, 
long divided in itself, and sever'd from 
the faith, will return into the one true fold, 
seeing that our gracious Virgin Queen 
hath 

Croivd. No pope ! no pope ! 

Roger {to those about him, mimicking 
Bourne). — hath sent for the holy legate 
of the holy father the Pope, Cardinal 
Pole, to give us all that holy absolution 
which 

First Citizen. Old Bourne to the life ! 

Second Citizen. Holy absolution ! holy 
Inquisition ! 

Third Citizen. Down with the Papist ! 
\Hubbiib. 

Bourne. — and now that your good 
bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long 
under bonds for the faith — \Hubbub. 

Noailles. Friend Roger, steal thou in 
among the crowd. 
And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



583 



Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter, 
Begin with him. 

Roger {goes). By the mass, old friend, 
we'll have no pope here while the Lady 
Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, 
fellow, that swearest by the mass ? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new converted, 
but the old leaven sticks to my tongue 
yet. 

First Citizen. He says right ; by the 
mass we'll have no mass here. 

Voices of the crowd. Peace ! hear him ; 
let his own M'ords damn the Papist. From 
thine own mouth I judge thee — tear him 
down ! 

Bourne. — and since our Gracious 
Queen, let me call her our second Virgin 
Mary, hath begun to re-edify the true 

temple 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary ! we'll have 
no virgins here — we'll have the Lady 
Elizabeth ! 

\Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled 

and sticks in the pulpit. The mob 

throng to the pulpit stairs. 

Marchioness of Exeta-. Son Courtenay, 

wilt thou see the holy father 

Murdered before thy face ? up, son, and 

save him ! 
They love thee, and thou canst not come 
to harm. 
Courtenay [in the pulpit). Shame, 
shame, my masters ! are you Eng- 
lish-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds against 
one? 
Crowd. A Courtenay ! a Courtenay ! 
\^A train of Spanish sei'vants crosses 
at the back of the stage. 
Noailles. These birds of passage come 
before their time : 
Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard 
there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder's fatter 
game for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look you 

there — 
The Prince of Spain coming to wed our 
Queen ! 



After him, boys ! and pelt him from the 
city. 
[ They seize stones and follow the 
Spaniards. Exetint on the other 
side Marchioness of Exeter and 
Attendants. 
Noailles {to Roger). Stand from me. 
If Elizabeth lose her head — 
That makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd thereupon, 
Arise against her and dethrone the Queen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion anyway — 
That makes for France. 

Good -day, my Lord of Devon ; 
A bold heart yours to beard that raging 
mob ! 
Courtenay. My mother said, Go up ; 
and up I went. 
I knew they would not do me any wrong. 
For I am mighty popular with them, 
Noailles. 
Noailles. You look'd a king. 
Co7irtcnay Why not ? I am 

king's blood. 
Noailles. And in the whirl of change 

may come to be one. 
Courtenay. Ah ! 
Noailles. But does your gracious 

Queen entreat you kinglike ? 
Courtenay. 'Fore God, I think she 

entreats me like a child. 
Noailles. You've but a dull life in this 
maiden court, 
I fear, my Lord ? 

Courtenay. A life of nods and yawns. 
Noailles. So you would honour my 
poor house to-night. 
We might enliven you. Divers honest 

fellows. 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from 

prison. 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more — 
we play. 
Cotirtenay. At what ? 
Noailles. The Game of Chess. 

Courtenay. The Game of Chess ! 

I can play well, and I shall beat you 
there. 



584 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Noailles. Ay, but we play with Henry, 
King of France, 
And certain of his court. 
His Highness makes his moves across the 

Channel, 
We answer him with ours, and there are 

messengers 
That go between us. 

Cow'teiiay. Why, such a game, sir, 

were whole years a-playing. 
Noailles. Nay ; not so long I trust. 
That all depends 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the players. 
Courtenay. The King is skilful at it ? 
Noailles. Very, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the stakes high ? 
Noailles. But not beyond your means. 
Courtenay. Well, I'm the first of 

players. I shall win. 
Noailles. With our advice and in our 
company, 
And so you well attend to the king's moves, 
I think you may. 

Courtenay. When do you meet ? 
Noailles. To-night. 

Courtenay [aside). I will be there ; the 
fellow's at his tricks — 
Deep — I shall fathom him. [Aloud.) 
Good morning, Noailles. 

{^Exit Courtenay. 
Noailles. Good-day, my Lord. Strange 
game of chess ! a King 
That with her own pawns plays against a 

Queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a King. 
Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay 

seems 
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a 

Knight, 
That, with an ass's, not a horse's head. 
Skips every way, from levity or from fear. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so that 

Gardiner 
And Simon Renard spy not out our game 
Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that 

anyone 
Suspected thee to be my man ? 

Roger. Not one, su'. 

Noailles. No ! the disguise was perfect. 

Let's away. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV 
London. A Room in the Palace 

Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay 

Courtenay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, 
A goodlier- looking fellow than this Philip. 
Pah! 
The Queen is ill advised : shall I turn 

traitor ? 
They've almost talked me into it : yet the 

word 
Affrights me somewhat : to be such a one 
As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it. 
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your 

age, 
And by your looks you are not worth the 

having, 
Yet by your crown you are. 

{Seeing Elizabeth. 
The Princess there ? 
If I tried her and la — she's amorous. 
Have we not heard of her in Edward's 

time. 
Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord 

Admiral ? 
I do believe she'd yield. I should be 

still 
A party in the state ; and then, who 
knows — 
Elizabeth. What are you musing on, 

my Lord of Devon ? 
Courtenay. Has not the Queen — 
Elizabeth. Done what. Sir ? 

Courtenay. — made you follow 

The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox? — 
You, 
The heir presumptive. 

Elizabeth. Why do you ask? you 

know it. 
Courtenay. You needs must bear it 

hardly. 
Elizabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 
Courtenay. Well, I was musing upon 
that ; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours : we should be 
friends. 



QUEEN MARY 



585 



Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of 
another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer bond ? 

Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were 

loosed from out the Tower, 

Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis. 

You spent your life ; that broken, out 

you flutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now 

would settle 
Upon this flower, now that ; but all things 

here 
At court are known ; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she ! 

Half faded ! but you, cousin, are fresh and 

sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try me ? 
why, but now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay. You did me wrong, 

I love not to be called a butterfly : 
Why do you call me butterfly ? 

Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay then ? 

Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 

This dress was made me as the Earl of 

Devon 
To take my seat in ; looks it not right 
royal ? 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen 

forbad you wearing it. 
Courtenay. I wear it then to spite her. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; 

I see you in the Tower again. Her 

Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince — prelates 
kneel to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood in 
Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin. 
Elizabeth. She hears you make your 
boast that after all 
She means to wed you. Folly, my good 
Lord. 
Courtenay. How folly ? a great party 
in the state 
Wills me to wed her. 



Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 

Doth not as great a party in the state 
Will you to wed me ? 

Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to flatter ladies. 
Courtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Is no great party in the state as yet. 
Courtenay. Great, said you? nay, you 
shall be great. I love you, 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you be 
close ? 
Elizabeth. Can you, my Lord ? 
Courtenay. Close as a miser's casket. 
Listen : 

The King of France, Noailles the Am- 
bassador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some 

others. 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall 

not be. 
If Mary will not hear us — well — conjec- 
ture — 
Were I in Devon with my wedded bride. 
The people there so worship me — Your 

ear ; 
You shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, 

my Lord ; 
I cannot hear you. 

Courtenay. I'll repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand further off, or you may lose your 
head. 
Courtenay. I have a head to lose for 

your sweet sake. 
Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord ? Best 
keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 
Not many friends are mine, except indeed 
Among the many. I believe you mine ; 
And so you may continue mine, farewell. 
And that at once. 

Enter Mary, behind 

Mary. Whispering — leagued together 
To bar me from my Philip. 

Courtenay. Pray — consider — 



586 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Elizabeth [seeing the Queen). Well, 
that's a noble horse of yours, my 
Lord. 
I trust that he will carry you well to-day, 
And heal your headache. 

Cow- ten ay. You are wild ; what head- 
ache ? 
Heartache, perchance ; not headache. 
Elizabeth {aside to Courtenay). Are 
you blind ? 
[Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. 
Exit Mary. 

Enter Lord William Howard 
Harvard. Was that my Lord of Devon ? 

do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of 

Devon. 
He hath fallen out of favour with the 

Queen. 
She fears the Lords may side with you 

and him 
Against her marriage ; therefore is he 

dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather 

come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous every- 
way. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that 

way, my good uncle. 
Hozvard. But your own state is full 

of danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers, 
Look to you as the one to crown their 

ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot I pray 

you ; 
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such. 
Speak not thereof — no, not to your best 

friend, 
Lest you should be confounded with it. 

Still— 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest says. 
You know your Latin — quiet as a dead 

body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling you? 
Elizabeth. Whether he told me any- 
thing or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 



Hoivard. You do right well. 

I do not care to know ; but this I charge 
you, 

Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord 
Chancellor 

(I count it as a kind of virtue in him. 

He hath not many), as a mastiff dog 

May love a puppy cur for no more reason 

Than that the twain have been tied up 
together. 

Thus Gardiner — for the two were fellow- 
prisoners 

So many years in yon accursed Tower — 

Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to 
it, niece, 

He hath no fence when Gardiner ques- 
tions him ; 

All oozes out ; yet him — because they 
know him 

The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet 

(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the 
people 

Claim as their natural leader — ay, some 
say, 

That you shall marry him, make him King 
belike. 
Elizabeth. Do they say so, good 

uncle ? 
Hozvard. Ay, good niece ! 

You should be plain and open with me, 
niece. 

You should not play upon me. 

Elizabeth. No, good uncle. 

Enter Gardiner 
Gardiner. The Queen would see your 

Grace upon the moment. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop? 
Gardiner. I think she means to coun- 
sel your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country house. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop ? 
Gardiner. I do but bring the message, 
know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons from 
herself 
Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd 
before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to 
crave 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



587 



Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there. 
Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish 

before the word 
Is man's good Fairy — and the Queen is 

yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her hand, 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means to 

make 
A fiirewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 

Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, 

most loyal. \Bows low and exit. 
Howard. See, 

This comes of parleying with my Lord of 

Devon. 
Well, well, you must obey ; and I myself 
Believe it will be better for your welfare. 
Your time will come. 

Elizabeth. I think my time will come. 
Uncle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know. 
Not to be quell'd ; and I have felt within 

me 
Stirrings of some great doom when God's 

just hour 
Peals — but this fierce old Gardiner — his 

big baldness. 
That irritable forelock which he rubs, 
Plis buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half fright me. 

Howard. You've a bold heart ; keep 

it so. 
He cannot touch you save that you turn 

traitor ; 
And so take heed I pray you — you are one 
Who love that men should smile upon 

you, niece. 
They'd smile you into treason — some of 

them. 
Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath the 

smiling sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic 

prince. 
And this bald priest, and she that hates 

me, seek 
In that lone house, to practise on my life, 
By poison, fire, shot, stab — 



Howard. They will not, niece. 

Mine is the fleet and all the power at 

sea — 
Or will be in a moment. If they dared 
To harm you, I would blow this Philip 

and all 
Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle ; they 

have lost a sister. 
Hoivard. But why say that ? what have 
you done to lose her ? 
Come, come, I will go with you to the 
Queen. \^Exeunt. 

SCENE V 

A Room in the Palace 
Mary with Philip's miniature. Alice 

Mary [kissing the viiniatnre). Most 

goodly. Kinglike and an Emperor's 

son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl ? 
Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, 

and yet, methinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 

Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll 

Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; 
All red and white, the fashion of our land. 
But my good mother came (God rest her 

soul) 
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself. 
And in my likings. 

Alice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, but 

took 
To the English red and white. Your 

royal father 
(For so they say) was all pure lily and rose 
In his youth, and like a lady. 

Mary. O, just God ! 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause 

enough 
To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, 

forlorn ! 
And then the King — that traitor past 

forgiveness. 
The false archbishop fawning on him, 

married 



588 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



I 



The mother of Elizabeth — a heretic 
Ev'n as she is ; but God hath sent me here 
To take such order with all heretics 
That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 
My father and my brother had not lived. 
What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane, 
Now in the Tower ? 

Alice. Why, Madam, she was passing 
Some chapel down in Essex, and with her 
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne 
Bow'd to the Pyx ; but Lady Jane stood 

up 
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady 

Anne, 
To him within there who made Heaven 

and Earth ? 
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace 
What Lady Jane replied. 

Mary. But I will have it. 

Alice. She said — pray pardon me, and 

pity her — 
She hath harken'd evil counsel — ah ! she 

said, 
The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous ! blasphemous ! 

She ought to burn. Hence, thou {Exit 

Alice). No — being traitor 
Her head will fall : shall it ? she is but a 

child. 
We do not kill the child for doing that 
His father whipt him into doing — a head 
So full of grace and beauty ! would that 

mine 
Were half as gracious ! O, my lord to be, 
My love, for thy sake only. 
I am eleven years older than he is. 
But will he care for that ? 
No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, 
But love me only : then the bastard sprout. 
My sister, is far fairer than myself. 
Will he be drawn to her ? 
No, being of the true faith with myself. 
Paget is for him — for to wed with Spain 
Would treble England — Gardiner is 

against him ; 
The Council, people, Parliament against 

him ; 
But I will have him ! My hard father 

hated me ; 



My brother rather hated me than loved ; 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant me my 

prayer : 
Give me my Philip ; and we two will lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, 

and watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of 

old, 
To heaven, and kindled with the palms 

of Christ ! 

Enter Usher 
Who waits, sir ? 

Usher. Madam, the Lord Chancellor. 
Mary. Bid him come in. {Enter 

Gardiner.) Good morning, my 

good Lord. \Exit Usher. 

Gardiner. That every morning of your 

Majesty 
May be most good, is every morning's 

prayer 
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen 

Gardiner. 
Mary. Come you to tell me this, my 

Lord ? 
Gardiner. And more. 
Your people have begun to learn your 

worth. 
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's 

debts, 
Your lavish household curb'd, and the 

remission 
Of half that subsidy levied on the 

people. 
Make all tongues praise and all hearts 

beat for you. 
I'd have you yet more loved : the realm 

is poor, 
The exchequer at neap-tide : we might 

withdraw 
Part of our garrison at Calais. 

Mary. Calais ! 

Our one point on the main, the gate of 

France ! 
I am Queen of England ; take mine eyes, 

mine heart. 
But do not lose me Calais. 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



589 



Gardiner. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is 

loved. 
That I may keep you thus, who am your 

friend 
And ever faithful counsellor, might I 

speak ? 
Alary. I can forespeak your speaking. 

Would I marry 
Prince Philip, if all England hate him ? 

That is 
Your question, and I front it with another : 
Is it England, or a party ? Now, your 

answer. 
Gardiner. My answer is, I wear be- 
neath my dress 
A shirt of mail : my house hath been 

assaulted, 
And when I walk abroad, the populace. 
With fingers pointed like so many daggers, 
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and 

Philip ; 
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at- 
arms 
Guard my poor dreams for England. 

Men would murder me, 
Because they think me favourer of this 

marriage. 
Mary. And that were hard upon you, 

my Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our young Earl of 

Devon — 
Mary. Earl of Devon ? 

I freed him from the Tower, placed him 

at Court ; 
I made him Earl of Devon, and — the 

fool- 
He wrecks his health and wealth on 

courtesans. 
And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. 
Gardiner. More like a school-boy that 

hath broken bounds, 
Sickening himself with sweets. 

Mary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt : but I am 

Tudor, 
And shall control them. 

Gardifter. I will help you. Madam, 
Even to the utmost. All the church is 

grateful. 



You have ousted the mock priest, re- 

pulpited 
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the 

rood again, 
And brought us back the mass. I am all 

thanks 
To God and to your Grace : yet I know 

well, 
Your people, and I go with them so far, 
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here 

to play 
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or 
church. 
Mary {showing the picture). Is this the 
face of one who plays the tyrant ? 
Peruse it ; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle ? 
Gardiner. Madam, methinks a cold 
face and a haughty. 
And when your Highness talks of Cour- 

tenay — 
Ay, true — a goodly one. I would his 

life 
Were half as goodly {aside). 

Mary. What is that you mutter ? 

Gaj'difter. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly ; 
marry Philip, 
And be stepmother of a score of sons ! 
The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, 

ha! 
For Philip — 

Majy. You offend us ; you may leave 
us. 
You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner. If your Majesty — 

Mary. I have sworn upon the body 
and blood of Christ 
I'll none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so sworn ? 
Alary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. 
Gardiner. News to me ! 

It then remains for your poor Gardiner, 
So you still care to trust him somewhat 

less 
Than Simon Renard, to compose the 

event 
In some such form as least may harm 
your Grace. 
Alary. FU have the scandal sounded 
to the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 



590 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT S 



Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend us. 

Gardiner [aside). These princes are 

like children, must be physick'd, 

The bitter in the sweet. I have lost 

mine office, 
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool. 

lExii. 

Enter Usher 

Mary. Who waits? 

Usher. The Ambassador from France, 

your Grace. 
Mary {sits down). Bid him come in. 
Good morning, Sir de Noailles. 
\_Exit Usher. 
Noailles [entering). A happy morning 

to your Majesty. 
Mary. And I should some time have 
a happy morning ; 
I have had none yet. What says the 
King your master ? 
Noailles. Madam, my master hears 
with much alarm. 
That you may marry Philip, Prince of 

Spain — • 
Foreseeing, with whate'er unwillingness, 
That if this PhiHp be the titular king 
Of England, and at war with him, your 

Grace 
And kingdom will be suck'd into the war. 
Ay, tho' you long for peace ; wherefore, 

my master. 
If but to prove your Majesty's goodwill. 
Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn 
between you. 
Mary. Why some fresh treaty? where- 
fore should I do it ? 
Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain 
All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that ! and your good 

master. 
Pray God he do not be the first to break 

them, 
Must be content with that ; and so, fare- 
well. 
Noailles [going, returns). I would your 
answer had been other, Madam, 
For I foresee dark davs. 



Mary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me in the dark. 
I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 

Noailles. Nay, pure phantasy, your , 

Grace. I 

Why should he move against you ? 1 

Mary. Will you hear why ? 

Mary of Scotland, — for I have not own'd 
My sister, and I will not, — after me 
Is heir of England ; and my royal father, 
To make the crown of Scotland one with 

ours, 
Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's 

bride ; 
Ay, but your king stole her a babe from 

Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dauphin. 
See then : 
Mary of Scotland, married to your ; 

Dauphin, | 

Would make our England, France ; ' 

Mary of England, joining hands with 

Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain 

and we, 
One crown, might rule the world. There 

lies your fear. 
That is your drift. You play at hide and 

seek. 
Show me your faces ! 

Noailles. Madam, I am amazed : 

French, I must needs wish all good things 

for France. 
That must be pardon'd me ; but I protest 
Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight 
Than mine into the future. We but 

seek 
Some settled ground for peace to stand 

upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this, 

sir, to our council. 
Have you seen Philip ever ? 

Noailles. Only once. 

Mary. Is this like Philip ? 
Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. 

Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

the Emperor? 
Noailles. No, surely. 



QUEEN MARY 



591 



Mary. I can make allowance for thee, 
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king. 
Noailles. Make no allowance for the 
naked truth. 
He is everyway a lesser man than Charles ; 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of daring 
in him. 
Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
Noailles. Why {smiling), no, indeed. 
Mary. Sayst thou ? 
Noailles. A very wanton life indeed 

{siniling). 
Mary. Your audience is concluded, 
sir. \^Exit Noailles. 

You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his natural foe. 

Enter Usher 
Who waits? 

Usher. The Ambassador of Spain, 
your Grace. {JExit. 

Enter SiMON Renard 

Mary {rising to meet him). Thou 

art ever welcome, Simon Renard. 

Hast thou 
Brought me the letter which thine 

Emperor promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand 
Of Philip ? 

Renard. Nay, your Grace, it hath not 

reach'd me. 
I know not wherefore — some mischance 

of flood. 
And broken bridge_, or spavin'd horse, or 

wave 
And wind at their old battle : he must 

have written. 
Mary. But Philip never writes me 

one poor word. 
Which in his absence had been all my 

wealth. 
Strange in a wooer ! 

Renaj'd. Yet I know the Prince, 

So your king -parliament suffer him to 

land. 
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore. 
]\Iary. God change the pebble which 

his kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly stone 



Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one 

mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd 

firelike ; 
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, 

with diamond. 
Let the great angel of the church come 

with him ; 
Stand on the deck and spread his wings 

for sail ! 
God lay the waves and strow the storms 

at sea, 
And here at land among the people ! O 

Renard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in despair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is 

ours ; 
But for our heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O Madam, 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My 

master, Charles, 
Bad you go softly with your heretics here. 
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. 

Then 
Spit them like larks for aught I care. 

Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcase of your 

church 
To pieces, there were many wolves among 

you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their 

den. 
The Pope would have you make them 

render these ; 
So would your cousin. Cardinal Pole ; ill 

counsel ! 
These let them keep at present ; stir not 

yet 
This matter of the Church lands. At 

his coming 
Your star will rise. 

Mary. My star ! a baleful one. 

I see but the black night, and hear the 

wolf. 
What star ? 

Renard. Your star will be your princely 

son, 
Heir of this England and the Netherlands! 
And if your wolf the while should howl 

for more, 



592 



QUEEN MARY 



We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish 

gold. 
I do believe, I have dusted some already, 
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours. 
Mary. Why do they talk so foully of 
your Prince, 
Renard ? 

Renard. The lot of Princes. To sit 
high 
Is to be lied about. 

Alary. They call him cold. 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Renard. Why, doubtless, Philip shows 
Some of the bearing of your blue blood — 

still 
All within measure — nay, it well becomes 
him. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

his father ? 
Renard. Nay, some believe that he 

will go beyond him. 
Mary. Is this like him ? 
Renard. Ay, somewhat ; but your 
Philip 
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the 

sun. 
This is a daub to Philip. 

Mary. Of a pure life ? 

Renard. As an angel among angels. 
Yea, by Heaven, 
The text — Your Highness knows it, 

' Whosoever 
Looketh after a woman,' would not graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in 

him there. 
Chaste as your Grace ! 

Mary. I am happy in him there. 

Renard. And would be altogether 
happy, Madam, 
So that your sister were but look'd to 

closer. 
You have sent her from the court, but 

then she goes, 
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, 
But hatch you some new treason in the 
woods. 
Mary. We have our spies abroad to 
catch her tripping, 
And then if caught, to the Tower. 

Renard. The Tower ! the block ! 



The word has turn'd your Highness pale ; 

the thing 
Was no such scarecrow in your father's 

time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd 

with the jest 
When the head leapt — so common ! I 

do think 
To save your crown that it must come to 

this. 
Mary. No, Renard ; it must never 

come to this. 
Renard. Not yet ; but your old 

Traitors of the Tower — 
Why, when you put Northumberland to 

death, 
The sentence having past upon them 

all, 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guild- 
ford Dudley, 
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear 

your crown ? 
Mary. Dared ? nay, not so ; the child 

obey'd her father. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it on 

her. 
Renard. Good Madam, when the 

Roman wish'd to reign, 
He slew not him alone who wore the 

purple. 
But his assessor in the throne, perchance 
A child more innocent than Lady Jane. 
Mary. I am English Queen, not 

Roman Emperor. 
Renard. Yet too much mercy is a 

want of mercy. 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the 

fire, or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the 

throne 
Where you should sit with Philip : he 

will not come 
Till she be gone. 

Mary. Indeed, if that were true — 

For Philip comes, one hand in mine, 

and one 
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the 

Church — 
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am some- 
what faint 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



593 



With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am 

not Queen 
Of mine own heart, which every now and 

then 
Beats me half dead : yet stay, this golden 

chain — 
My father on a birthday gave it me, 
And I have broken with my father — take 
And wear it as memorial of a morning 
Which found me full of foolish doubts, 

and leaves me 
As hopeful. 

Renard [aside). Whew — the folly of 

all follies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. {Alotid) 

Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not with 

gold,^ 
But dearest links of love. Farewell, and 

trust me, 
Philip is yours. [Exit. 

Mary. Mine — but not yet all mine. 

Enter Usher 
Usher. Your Council is in Session, 

please your Majesty. 
Mary. Sir, let them sit. I must have 

time to breathe. 
No, say I come. {Exit Usher. ) I won 

by boldness once. 
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to 

Flanders. 
I would not ; but a hundred miles I rode. 
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends 

together. 
Struck home and won. 
And when the Council would not crown 

me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not keep, 
And keep with Christ and conscience — 

was it boldness 
Or weakness that won there? when I, 

their Queen, 
Cast myself down upon my knees before 

them, 
And those hard men brake into woman 

tears, 
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that 

passion 
Gave me my Crown. 



Eitter Alice 

Girl ; hast thou ever heard 
Slanders against Prince Philip in our 
Court ? 
Alice. What slanders ? I, your Grace ; 

no, never. 
Mary. Nothing ? 

Alice. Never, your Grace. 
Mary. See that you neither hear them 

nor repeat ! 
Alice [aside). Good Lord ! but I have 
heard a thousand such. 
Ay, and repeated them as often — mum ! 
Why comes that old fox- Fleming back 
again ? 

Enter Renard 

Renard. Madam, I scarce had left 
your Grace's presence 
Before I chanced upon the messenger 
Who brings that letter which we waited 

for— 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand. 
It craves an instant answer. Ay or No. 
Mary. An instant Ay or No ! the 
Council sits. 
Give it me quick. 

Alice [stepping before her). Your High- 
ness is all trembling. 
Mary. Make way. 

\^Exit into the Cotmcil Chaniber. 
Alice. O, Master Renard, Master 
Renard, 
If you have falsely painted your fine 

Prince ; 
Praised, where you should have blamed 

him, I pray God 
No woman ever love you, Master Renard. 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at 

night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her 
bed. 
Renard. My pretty maiden, tell me, 
did you ever 
Sigh for a beard ? 

Alice. That's not a pretty question. 
Renard. Not prettily put ? I mean, 
my pretty maiden, 
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. 
2 Q 



594 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT II 



Alice. My Lord of Devon is a pretty 
man. 
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what 
then ? 
Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you 
should know that whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan 
A kindled fire. 

Alice. According to the song. 

His friends would praise him, I believed 'em, 
His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em. 

His friends— as Angels I received 'em. 
His foes— the Devil had suborn'd 'em. 

Renard. Peace, pretty maiden. 
I hear them stirring in the Council 

Chamber. 
Lord Paget's ' Ay ' is sure — who else ? 

and yet. 
They are all too much at odds to close at 

once 
In one full-throated No I Her Highness 

comes. 

Enter Mary 

Alice. How deathly pale ! — a chair, 
your I'lighness. 

{Bringing one to the Queen. 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council ? 

Mary. Ay ! My Philip is all mine. 
\Sinks into chair, half fainting. 



ACT n 
SCENE I. — Alington Castle 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. I do not hear from 

Carew or the Duke 
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move. 
The Duke hath gone to Leicester ; Carew 

stirs 
In Devon : that fine porcelain Courtenay, 
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in 

using, 
(I have known a semi-madman in my 

time 
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon 

too. 



Enter WiLLlAM 

News abroad, William ? 

William. None so new. Sir Thomas, 
and none so old. Sir Thomas. No new 
news that PhiUp comes to wed Mary, no 
old news that all men hate it. Old Sir 
Thomas would have hated it. The bells 
are ringing at INIaidstone. Doesn't your 
worship hear ? 

Wyatt. Ay, for the Saints are come to 
reign again. 
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no 

call 
As yet for me ; so in this pause, before I 
The mine be fired, it were a pious work ^ 
To string my father's sonnets, left about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order. 
And head them with a lamer rhyme of 

mine. 
To grace his memory. 

William. Ay, why not. Sir Thomas ? 
He was a fine courtier, he ; Queen Anne 
loved him. All the women loved him. 
I loved him, I was in Spain with him. 
I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep 
in Spain. I hate Spain, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. But thou could'st drink in 
Spain if I remember. 

William. Sir Thomas, we may grant 
the wine. Old Sir Thomas always 
granted the wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my 
father's sonnets. 

Williani. Ay — sonnets — a fine courtier 
of the old Court, old Sir Thomas. \Exit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he 
loved the more 
His own gray towers, plain life and 

letter'd peace. 
To read and rhyme in solitary fields. 
The lark above, the nightingale below. 
And answer them in song. The sire 

begets 
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail 
Where he was fullest : yet — to write it 
down. \He writes. 

Re-ejiter William 
William. There zVnews, there zjnews, 



QUEEN MARY 



595 



and no call for sonnet-sorting now, nor 
for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand 
men on Penenden Heath all calling after 
your worship, and your worship's name 
heard into Maidstone market, and your 
worship the first man in Kent and Chris- 
tendom, for the Queen's down, and the 
world's up, and your worship a-top of it. 
Wyalt. Inverted yEsop — mountain 

out of mouse. 
Say for ten thousand ten — and pothouse 

knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning 

ale. 

Enter Antony Knyvett 

Williaiii. Here's Antony Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Look you, Master Wyatt, 

Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these. 

Dumb children of my father, that will 

speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies 

you know 
For ages. 

Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a flying 
ant, 
Wing'd for a moment. 

Wyatt. Well, for mine own work, 

[ Tearing the paper. 
It lies there in six pieces at your feet ; 
For all that I can carry it in my head. 
Knyvett. If you can carry your head 

upon your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it ofl" 
my shoulders, 
And sonnet- making's safer. 

Knyvett. Why, good Lord, 

Write you as many sonnets as you will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have you eyes, 

ears, brains ? 
This Philip and the black-faced swarms 

of Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people in the world. 
Come locusting upon us, eat us up. 
Confiscate lands, goods, money — Wyatt, 

Wyatt, 
Wake, or the stout old island will become 
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you 



On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them 

■ — more — 
All arm'd, waiting a leader ; there's no 

glory 
Like his who saves his country : and you 

sit 
Sing-songing here ; but, if I'm any judge. 
By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt, 
As a good soldier. 

Wyatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend : you stroke me on 

one cheek, 
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, 

Antony ! 
You know I know all this. I must not 

move 
Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. 
I fear the mine is fired before the time. 
Knyvett {showing a paper). But here's 

some Hebrew. Faith, I half 

forgot it. 
Look ; can you make it English ? A 

strange youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 

' Wyatt,' 
And whisking round a corner, show'd his 

back 
Before I read his face. 

Wyatt. Ha ! Courtenay's cipher. 

[Reads. 
' Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it is 
thought the Duke will be taken. I am 
with you still ; but, for appearance sake, 
stay with the Queen. Gardiner knows, 
but the Council are all at odds, and the 
Queen hath no force for resistance. 
Move, if you move, at once.' 

Is Peter Carew fled ? Is the Duke taken ? 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! and let 

Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. 

No ; not that ; 
But we will teach Queen Mary how to 

reign. 
Who are those that shout below there ? 

Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That foUow'd me from Penenden Heath 

in hope 
To hear you speak. 



596 



QUEEN MARY 



Wyatt. Open the window, Knyvett ; 
The mine is fired, and I will speak to 
them. 

Men of Kent ; England of England ; 
you that have kept your old customs 
upright,, while all the rest of England 
bow'd theirs to the Norman, the cause 
that hath brought us together is not the 
cause of a county or a shire, but of this 
England, in whose crown our Kent is the 
fairest jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary ; 
and ye have called me to be your leader. 
I know Spain. I have been there with 
ray father ; I have seen them in their own 
land ; have marked the haughtiness of 
their nobles ; the cruelty of their priests. 
If this man marry our Queen, however 
the Council and the Commons may fence 
round his power with restriction, he will 
be King, King of England, my masters ; 
and the Queen, and the laws, and the 
people, his slaves. What ? shall we have 
Spain on the throne and in the parlia- 
ment ; Spain in the pulpit and on the 
law-bench ; Spain in all the great offices 
of state ; Spain in our ships, in our forts, 
in our houses, in our beds ? 

Crowd. No ! no ! no Spain ! 

William. No Spain in our beds — that 
were worse than all. I have been there 
with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I 
know. I hate Spain. 

A Peasant. But, Sir Thomas, must 
we levy war against the Queen's Grace ? 

Wyatt. No, my friend ; war for the 
Queen's Grace — to save her from herself 
and Philip — war against Spain. And 
think not we shall be alone — thousands 
will flock to us. The Council, the Court 
itself, is on our side. The Lord Chancel- 
lor himself is on our side. The King of 
France is with us ; the King of Denmark 
is with us ; the world is with us — war 
against Spain ! And if we move not now, 
yet it will be known that we have moved ; 
and if Philip come to be King, O, my 
God ! the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, 
the stake, the fire. If we move not now, 
Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her 



gold, and creeps, creeps snake-like about 
our legs till we cannot move at all ; and 
ye know, my masters, that wherever 
Spain hath ruled she hath wither'd all 
beneath her. Look at the New World — 
a paradise made hell ; the red man, that 
good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, 
flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, buried 
alive, worried by dogs ; and here, nearer 
home, the Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, 
Lombardy. I say no more — only this, 
their lot is yours. Forward to London 
with me ! forward to London ! If ye 
love your liberties or your skins, forward 
to London ! 

Cj'oivd. Forward to London ! A 

Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! 
Wyatt. But first to Rochester, to take 
the guns 
P'rom out the vessels lying in the river. 
Then on. 

A Feasant. Ay, but I fear we be too 

few. Sir Thomas. 
Hyatt. Not many yet. The world as 
yet, my friend. 
Is not half- waked; but every parish 

tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we j 
pass, m 

And pour along the land, and swoll'n and ^ 

fed 
With indraughts and side-currents, in full 

force 
Roll upon London. 

Crozvd. A Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! Forward ! 
Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim 

Elizabeth ? 
Wyatt. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Or Lady Jane ? 

Wyatt. No, poor soul ; no. 
Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may 

chance 
That I shall never look upon you more. 
Knyvett. Come, now, you're sonnet- 
ing again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the state; 
Or — if the Lord God will it — on the stake. 
\Excitnt, 



QUEEN MARY 



597 



SCENE II.— Guildhall 

Sir Thomas White (The Lord Mayor), 
Lord William Howard, Sir 
Ralph Bagenhall, Aldermen and 
Citizens. 

White. I trust the Queen comes hither 

with her guards. 
Howard. Ay, all in arms. 

{Several of the citizens inove hastily out 
of the hall. 

Why do they hurry out there ? 

White. My Lord, cut out the rotten 

from your apple, 

Your apple eats the better. Let them go. 

They go like those old Pharisees in John 

Convicted by their conscience, arrant 

cowards, 
Or tamperers with that treason out of 

Kent. 
When will her Grace be here ? 

Howard. In some few minutes. 

She will address your guilds and com- 
panies. 
I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. 
But help her in this exigency, make 
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man 
This day in England. 

White. I am Thomas White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set my 

will. 
I do my most and best. 

Howard. You know that after 

The Captain Brett, who went with your 

train bands 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him 
With all his men, the Queen in that 

distress 
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the 

traitor, 
Feigning to treat with him about her 

marriage — • 
Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He'd sooner be, 

While this same marriage question was 

being argued, 
Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — and 

demanded 
Possession of her person and the Tower. 



Howard. And four of her poor Coun- 
cil too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. What do and say 
Your Council at this hour ? 

Howard. I will trust you. 

We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. 

The Council, 
The Parliament as well, are troubled 

waters ; 
And yet like waters of the fen they know 

not 
Which way to flov/. All hangs on her 

address. 
And upon you. Lord Mayor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it ? Quiet ? 

Howard. Like our Council, 

Your city is divided. As we past, 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were 

citizens 
Stood each before his shut-up booth, and 

look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in rags. 
With execrating execrable eyes. 
Glared at the citizen. Here was a young 

mother, 
Her face on flame, her red hair all blown 

back, 
She shrilling 'Wyatt,' while the boy she 

held 
Mimick'd and piped her ' Wyatt,' as red 

as she 
In hair and cheek ; and almost elbowing 

her. 
So close they stood, another, mute as 

death. 
And white as her own milk ; her babe in 

arms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's 

heart. 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared 

prayers 
Heaven and earth's Maries ; over his 

bow'd shoulder 
Scowl'd that world -hated and world- 
hating beast, 



598 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT II 



A haggard Anabaptist. Many such 

groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Cour- 

tenay, 
Nay the Queen's right to reign — 'fore God, 

the rogues — 
Were freely buzzed among them. So I say 
Your city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or that way, of success 
Would turn it thither. Wherefore now 

the Queen 
In this low pulse and palsy of the state. 
Bad me to tell you that she counts on you 
And on myself as her two hands ; on you, 
In your own city, as her right, my Lord, 
For you are loyal. 

White. Am I Thomas White ? 

One word before she comes. Elizabeth — 
Her name is much abused among these 

traitors. 
Where is she ? She is loved by all of us. 
I scarce have heart to mingle in this 

matter, 
If she should be mishandled. 

Howard. No ; she shall not. 

The Queen had written her word to come 

to court : 
Methought I smelt out Renard in the 

letter. 
And fearing for her, sent a secret missive. 
Which told her to be sick. Happily or 

not, 
It found her sick indeed. 

White. God send her well, ; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 

Enter Guards, Mary, and Gardiner. 
Sir Thomas White leads her to a 
raised scat on the dais. 

White. I, the Lord Mayor, and these 

our companies 
And guilds of London, gathered here, 

beseech 
Your Highness to accept our lowliest 

thanks 
For your most princely presence ; and we 

pray 
That we, your true and loyal citizens. 
From your own royal lips, at once may 

know 



The wherefore of this coming, and so learn 
Your royal will, and do it. — I, Lord 

Mayor ,A 

Of London, and our guilds and companies. ^ 
Ulary. In mine own person am I come 

to you. 
To tell you what indeed ye see and know. 
How traitorously these rebels out of Kent 
Have made strong head against ourselves 

and you. 
They would not have me wed the Prince 

of Spain ; 
That was their pretext — so they spake at 

first— 
But we sent divers of our Council to them. 
And by their answers to the question ask'd, 
It doth appear this marriage is the least 
Of all their quarrel. 
They have betrayed the treason of their 

hearts : 
Seek to possess our person, hold our 

Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, and use 
Both us and them according as they will. 
Now what I am ye know right well — your 

Queen ; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the realm 
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring 

whereof. 
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger), ye did promise full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful heir 
Of England, and his right came down to 

me, 
Corroborate by your acts of Parliament : 
And as ye were most loving unto him, 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves to 

me. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that anyone 
Should seize our person, occupy our state, 
More specially a traitor so presumptuous 
As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd 

with 
A public ignorance, and, under colour 
Of such a cause as hath no colour, seeks 
To bend the laws to his own will, and yield 
Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn, 
To make free spoil and havock of your 

goods. 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



599 



Now as your Prince, I say, 

I, that was never mother, cannot tell 

How mothers love their children ; yet, 

methinks, 
A prince as naturally may love his people 
As these their children ; and be sure your 

Queen 
So loves you, and so loving, needs must 

deem 
This love by you return'd as heartily ; 
And thro' this common knot and bond of 

love. 
Doubt not they will be speedily over- 
thrown. 
As to this marriage, ye shall understand 
We made thereto no treaty of ourselves. 
And set no foot theretoward unadvised 
Of all our Privy Council ; furthermore, 
This marriage had the assent of those to 

whom 
The king, my father, did commithis trust ; 
Who not alone esteem'd it honourable, 
But for the wealth and glory of our realm, 
And all our loving subjects, most ex- 
pedient. 
As to myself, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to choose 
But where I list, nor yet so amorous 
That I must needs be husbanded ; I thank 

God, 
I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt 
But that with God's grace, I can live so 

still. 
Yet if it might please God that I should 

leave 
Some fruit of mine own body after me. 
To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat, 
And it would be your comfort, as I trust ; 
And truly, if I either thought or knew 
This marriage should bring loss or danger 

to you, 
My subjects, or impair in any way 
This royal state of England, I would never 
Consent thereto, nor marry while I live ; 
Moreover, if this marriage should not 

seem. 
Before our own High Court of Parliament, 
To be of rich advantage to our realm. 
We will refrain, and not alone from this. 
Likewise from any other, out of which 



Looms the least chance of peril to our 

realm. 
Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful 

Prince 
Stand fast against our enemies and yours. 
And fear them not. I fear them not. 

My Lord, 
I leave Lord William Howard in your city. 
To guard and keep you whole and safe 

from all 
The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these 

rebels. 
Who mouth and foam against the Prince 
of Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Down with Wyatt ! 
The Queen ! 
White. Three voices from our guilds 
and companies ! 
You are shy and proud like Englishmen, 

my masters. 
And will not trust your voices. Under- 
stand : 
Your lawful Prince hath come to cast 

herself 
On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to fall 
Into the wide-spread arms of fealty. 
And finds you statues. Speak at once — 

and all ! 
For whom? 

Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will ; 
The Queen of England — or the Kentish 

Squire ? 
I know you loyal. Speak ! in the name 

of God ! 
The Queen of England or the rabble of 

Kent ? 
The reeking dungfork master of the mace ! 
Your havings wasted by the scythe and 

spade — 
Your rights and charters hobnail'd into 

slush — 
Your houses fired — your gutters bubbling 

blood 

Acclamation. No ! No ! The Queen ! 

the Queen ! 
White. Your Highness hears 

This burst and bass of loyal harmony. 
And how we each and all of us abhor 
The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 



6oo 



QUEEN MARY 



Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make 

oath 
To raise your Highness thirty thousand 

men, 
And arm and strike as with one hand, 

and brush 
This Wyatt from our shoulders, hke a flea 
That might have leapt upon us unawares. 
Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, all. 
With all your trades, and guilds, and 
companies. 
Citizens. W^e swear ! 
Mary. We thank your Lordship and 
your loyal city. 

{^Exit Mary attended. 
White. I trust this day, thro' God, I 

have saved the crown. 
First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord of 
Pembroke in command 
Of all her force be safe ; but there are 
doubts. 
Second Alderman. I hear that Gar- 
diner, coming with the Queen, 
And meeting Pembroke, bent to his 

saddle-bow. 
As if to win the man by flattering him. 
Is he so safe to fight upon her side ? 
First Alderman. If not, there's no 

man safe. 
White. Yes, Thomas Wliite. 

I am safe enough ; no man need flatter 
me. 
Second Alderman. Nay, no man need ; 
but did you mark our Queen ? 
The colour freely play'd into her face. 
And the half sight which makes her look 

so stern, 
Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of 

hers. 
To read our faces ; I have never seen her 
So queenly or so goodly. 

White. Courage, sir, 

That makes or man or woman look their 

goodliest. 
Die like the torn fox dumb, but never 

whine 
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, 
at the block. 
Bagenhall. The man had children, 
and he whined for those. 



Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, 

else 
Should we so doat on courage, were it 

commoner ? 
The Queen stands up, and speaks for her 

own self; 
And all men cry, She is queenly, she is 

goodly. 
Yet she's no goodlier ; tho' my Lord 

Mayor here. 
By his own rule, he hath been so bold 

to-day. 
Should look more goodly than the rest of 

us. 
White. Goodly ? I feel most goodly 

heart and hand, 
And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all 

Kent. 
Ha ! ha ! sir ; but you jest ; I love it : a 

jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses even. 
Be merry ! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but 

sad. 
I dare avouch you'd stand up for yourself, 
Tho' all the world should bay like winter 

wolves. 
Bagenhall. Who knows? the man is 

proven by the hour. 
White. The man should make the 

hour, not this the man ; 
And Thomas White will prove this 

Thomas Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, 
And he will play the Walworth to this 

Wat ; 
Come, sirs, we prate ; hence all — gather 

your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to 

Southwark ; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the 

Thames, 
And see the citizens arm'd. Good day ; 

good day. {Exit White. 

Bage?ihall. One of much outdoor 

bluster. 
Howard. For all that. 

Most honest, brave, and skilful ; and his 

wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own self. 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



6oi 



Bagenhali. Yet thoroughly to believe 
in one's own self, 
So one's own self be thorough, were to do 
Great things, my Lord. 

Howard. It may be. 

Bagejihall. I have heard 

One of your Council fleer and jeer at him. 

Howard. The nursery-cocker'd child 

will jeer at aught 

That may seem strange beyond his nursery. 

The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at 

men, 
Makes enemies for himself and for his king ; 
And if he jeer not seeing the true man 
Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool ; 
And if he see the man and still will jeer, 
He is child and fool, and traitor to the 

State. 
Who is he ? let me shun him. 

Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damn'd enough already. 

Howard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well. 

Sir Ralph. 

Bagenhall. ' Who knows ? ' I am for 

England. But who knows. 

That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and 

the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen ? 
\_Exeunt. 

SCENE HL— London Bridge 

Enter SiR Thomas Wyatt and Brett 

Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke of 

Norfolk moved against us 
Thou cried'st ' A Wyatt ! ' and flying to 

our side 
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, 

Brett. 
Have for thine asking aught that I can give, 
For thro' thine help we are come to 

London Bridge ; 
But how to cross it balks me. I fear we 

cannot. 
Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, 

swimming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into the 

gate-house, Brett, 



And scared the gray old porter and his wife. 
And then I crept along the gloom and saw 
They had hewn the drawbridge down into 

the river. 
It roll'd as black as death ; and that same 

tide 
Which, coming with our coming, seem'd 

to smile 
And sparkle like our fortune as thou 

saidest, 
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against 

the piers. 
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William 

Howard 
By torchlight, and his guard ; four guns 

gaped at me. 
Black, silent mouths : had Howard spied 

me there 
And made them speak, as well he might 

have done. 
Their voice had left me none to tell you 

this. 
What shall we do ? 

Brett. On somehow. To go back 

Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On over London Bridge 

We cannot : stay we cannot ; there is 

ordnance 
On the White Tower and on the Devil's 

Tower, 
And pointed full at Southwark ; we must 

round 
By Kingston Bridge. 

Brett. Ten miles about. 

Wyatt. Ev'n so. 

But I have notice from our partisans 
Within the city that they will stand by us 
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to- 
morrow. 

Enter one of Wyatt's men 
Man. Sir Thomas, I've found this 
paper ; pray your worship read it ; I 
know not my letters ; the old priests 
taught me nothing. 

Wyatt {reads). ' Whosoever will ap- 
prehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt shall 
have a hundred pounds for reward.' 
Man. Is that it ? That's a big lot of 
money. 



602 



QUEEN MARY 



Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not read 
it ? 'tis not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece of 
paper ! 

\_Writ€s 'Thomas Wyatt' large. 
There, any man can read that, 

{^Sticks it in his cap. 
Brett. But that's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will 
give my followers boldness. 

Enter Man ivith a prisoner 

Man. We found him, your worship, a 
plundering o' Bishop Winchester's house ; 
he says he's a poor gentleman. 

Wyatt. Gentleman ! a thief! Go 
hang him. Shall we make 
Those that we come to serve our sharpest 
foes? 
Brett. Sir Thomas — 

Wyatt. Hang him, I say. 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised 

me a boon. 
Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this line 

fellow's life. 
Brett. Ev'n so ; he was my neighbour 
once in Kent. 
He's poor enough, has drunk and gambled 

out 
All that he had, and gentleman he was. 
We have been glad together; let him live. 
Wyatt. He has gambled for his life, 
and lost, he hangs. 
No, no, my word's my word. Take thy 

poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my sight. 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away ! 
Women and children ! 

Enter a Crowd of Women and Children 

First Woman. O Sir Thomas, Sir 

Thomas, pray you go away. Sir Thomas, 

or you'll make the White Tower a black 

'un for us this blessed 'day. He'll be the 

death on us ; and you'll set the Divil's 

Tower a-spitting, and he'll smash all our 

bits o' things worse than Philip o' Spain. 

Second Woman. Don't ye now go to 

think that we be for Philip o' Spain. 

Third Woman. No, we know that ye 



be come to kill the Queen, and we'll 
pray for you all on our bended knees. 
But o' God's mercy don't ye kill the 
Queen here. Sir Thomas ; look ye, here's 
little Dickon, and little Robin, and little 
Jenny — though she's but a side-cousin — 
and all on our knees, we pray you to kill 
the Queen further off. Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. My friends, I have not come 
to kill the Queen 
Or here or there : I come to save you all. 
And I'll go further off. 

Crowd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be 
beholden to you, and we'll pray for you 
on our bended knees till our lives' end. 

Wyatt. Be happy, I am your friend. 
To Kingston, forward ! {Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.— Room in the Gate- 
house OF Westminster Palace 

Mary, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, 
Ladies 

Gardiner. Their cry is, Philip never 

shall be king. 
Mary. Lord Pembroke in command 
of all our force 
Will front their cry and shatter them into 
dust. 
Alice. Was not Lord Pembroke with 
Northumberland ? 
O madam, if this Pembroke should be 
false ? 
Mary. No, girl ; most brave and loyal, 
brave and loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberland broke 

Northumberland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our 

guards. 
These Kentish ploughmen cannot break 
the guards. 

Enter Messenger 

Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath 
broken thro' the guards 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much fear 

That all is lost ; but we can save your 
Grace. 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



603 



The river still is free. I do beseech 

you, 
There yet is time, take boat and pass to 
Windsor, 
Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose 

my crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your 

Highness, to the Tower. 
Mary. I shall but be their prisoner 

in the Tower. 
Cries unthoiit. The traitor ! treason ! 

Pembroke ! 
Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

]\Iary. Peace. 
False to Northumberland, is he false to 

me? 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and 

die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip — A 

sound 
Of feet and voices thickening hither — 

blows — 
Hark, there is battle at the palace 

gates, 
And I will out upon the gallery. 

Ladies. No, no, your Grace ; see there 

the arrows flying. 
Mary. I arn Harry's daughter, Tudor, 
and not Fear. 

{^Goes out on the gallery. 
The guards are all driven in, skulk into 

corners 
Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious 

guard 
Truly ; shame on them ! they have shut 
the gates ! 

Enter Sir Robert Southwell 
Sozithiuell. The porter, please your 
Grace, hath shut the gates 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at- 
arms. 
If this be not your Grace's order, cry 
To have the gates set wide again,^ and they 
With their good battleaxes will do you 

right 
Against all traitors. 

Mary. They are the flower of 
England ; set the gates wide. 

{Exit Southwell. 



Enter Courtenay 

Coiirtcnay. All lost, all lost, all 
yielded ! A barge ! a barge ! 
The Queen must to the Tower. 

Mary. Whence come you, sir ? 

Cozirtenay. From Charing Cross ; the 
rebels broke us there. 
And I sped hither with what haste I might 
To save my royal cousin. 

Mary. Where is Pembroke ? 

Cotcrtenay. I left him somewhere in 

the thick of it. 
Ma7y. Left him and fled ; and thou 
that would'st be King, 
And hast nor heart nor honour. I myself 
Will down into the battle and there bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those 
That are no cowards and no Courtenays. 
Courtenay. I do not love your Grace 
should call me coward. 

E7iter another ISIessenger 

Messenger. Over, your Grace, all 

crush'd ; the brave Lord William 

Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor 

flying 
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 

Mary. To the Tower with hivi ! 

Messc7iger. 'Tis said he told Sir 
Maurice there was one 
Cognisant of this, and party thereunto, 
My Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Courtenay. O la, the Tower, the 
Tower, always the Tower, 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the Tower. 
Mary. Your Lordship may not have 
so long to wait. 
Remove him ! 

Courtenay. La, to whistle out my life, 
And carve my coat upon the walls again ! 
\Exit Courtenay guarded. 
Messenger. Also this Wyatt did con- 
fess the Princess 
Cognisant thereof, and party thereunto. 
Mary. What? whom — whom did you 
say? 



6o4 



QUEEN MARY 



Messenger. Elizabeth, 

Your Royal sister. 

Mary. To the Tower with her ! 

My foes are at my feet and I am Queen. 
[Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to her. 
Gardiner {rising). There let them lie, 
your footstool ! {Aside.) Can I 
strike 
Elizabeth ? — not now and save the life 
Of Devon : if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — may strike hereafter. 

{Aloud.) Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said he said. 
Cries of the moment and the street — 
Alary. He said it. 

Gardiiier. Your courts of justice will 

determine that, 
Renard {advancing). I trust by this 
your Highness will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling you. 
When last we talk'd, that Philip would 

not come 
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of 

Suffolk, 
And Lady Jane had left us. 

Mary. They shall die. 

Renard. And your so loving sister ? 
Mary. She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip King. 

\Exeunt. 

ACT HI 

SCENE L— The Conduit in Grace- 
church, 

Painted -djith the Nine Worthies^ among 
them King Henry VIII. holding a book, 
on it inscribed ' Verbum Dei.' 

Enter Sir Ralph Bagenhall and Sir 
Thomas Stafford 

Bagenhall. A hundred here and 

hundreds hang'd in Kent. 
The tigress had unsheath'd her nails at 

last, 
And Renard and the Chancellor sharpen'd 

them. 
In every London street a gibbet stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this 

house was one ; 



The traitor husband dangled at the door. 
And when the traitor wife came out for 

bread 
To still the petty treason therewithin. 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as heretofore. 
Sir, see you aught up yonder ? 

Bagenhall. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone. 
Stafford. What tree, sir ? 
Bagenhall. Well, the tree in 

Virgil, sir. 
That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What ! the gallows ? 

Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit was 
ripening overmuch. 
And had to be removed lest living Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not so dead. 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Bagenhall. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford ? 

Stafford. I am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in peril 

here? 
Stafford. I think so. 

I came to feel the pulse of England, 

whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did you 
see it ? 
Bagenhall. Stafford, I am a sad man 
and a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with mine 

old hound 
Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old flask 

of wine 

Beside me, than have seen it : yet I saw it. 

Stafford. Good, was it splendid ? 

Bagenhall. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls, 

And Counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers, 

Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, 

pearls. 
That royal commonplace too, cloth of gold, 
Could make it so. 

Stafford. And what was Mary's dress ? 
Bagenhall. Good faith, I was too sorry 
for the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red shoes ! 



QUEEN MARY 



60s 



Stafford. Red shoes ! 

Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet were 
wash'd in blood, 

As if she had waded in it. 

Stafford. Were your eyes 

So bashful that you look'd no higher ? 
Bagxiihall. A diamond, 

And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's love, 

Who hath not any for any, — tho' a true 
one. 

Blazed false upon her heart. 

Stafford. But this proud Prince — 

BageJihall. Nay, he is King, you 

know, the King of Naples. 

The father ceded Naples, that the son 

Being a King, might wed a Qugen — O he 

Flamed in brocade — white satin his trunk- 
hose, 

Inwrought with silver, — on his neck a 
collar, 

Gold, thick with diamonds ; hanging 
down from this 

The Golden Fleece — and round his knee, 
misplaced. 

Our English Garter, studded with great 
emeralds, 

Rubies, I know not what. Have you had 
enough 

Of all this gear ? 

Stafford. Ay, since you hate the tell- 
ing it. 

How look'd the Queen ? 

Bagenhall. No fairer for her jewels. 

And I could see that as the new-made 
couple 

Came from the Minster, moving side by 
side 

Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 

She cast on him a vassal smile of love. 

Which Philip with a glance of some dis- 
taste. 

Or so methought, return'd. I may be 
wrong, sir. 

This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. I think with you. 

The King of France will help to break it. 
Bagenhall. France ! 

We once had half of France, and hurl'd 
our battles 

Into the heart of Spain ; but England now 



Is but a ball chuck'd between France and 

Spain, 
hlis in whose hand she drops ; Harry of 

Bolingbroke 
Had holpen Richard's tottering throne to 

stand, 
Could Harry have foreseen that all our 

nobles 
Would perish on the civil slaughter-field. 
And leave the people naked to the crown, 
And the crown naked to the people ; the 

crown 
Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen 
Can save us. We are fallen, and as I 

think. 
Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black-blooded. 
I'd make a move myself to hinder that : 
I know some lusty fellows there in 

France. 
Bagenhall. You would but make us 

weaker, Thomas Stafford. 
Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail'd, 
And strengthen'd Philip, 

Stafford. Did not his last breath 

Clear Courtenay and the Princess from 

the charge 
Of being his co-rebels ? 

Bagenhall. Ay, but then 

What such a one as Wyatt says is nothing : 
We have no men among us. The new 

Lords 
Are quieted with their sop of Abbeylands, 
And ev'n before the Queen's face Gardiner 

buys them 
With Philip's gold. All greed, no faith, 

no courage ! 
Why, ev'n the haughty prince, Northum- 
berland, 
The leader of our Reformation, knelt 
And blubber'd like a lad, and on the 

scaffold 
Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. 
Stafford. I swear you do your country 

wrong. Sir Ralph. 
I know a set of exiles over there. 
Dare-devils, that would eat fire and spit 

it out 
At Philip's beard : they pillage Spain 

already. 



6o6 



QUEEN MARY 



The French King winks r.t it. An hour 

will come 
When they will sweep her from the seas. 

No men ? 
Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man ? 
Is not Lord William Howard a true man ? 
Yea, you yourself, altho' you are black- 
blooded : 
And I, by God, believe myself a man. 
Ay, even in the church there is a man — 
Cranmer. 
Fly would he not, when all men bad him 

fly. 
And what a letter he wrote against the 

Pope! 
There's a brave man, if any. 

Bagenhall. Ay ; if it hold. 

Crowd [coming o?i). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford. Bagenhall, I see 

The Tudor green and white. ( Triwipets. ) 

They are coming now. 
And here's a crowd as thick as herring- 
shoals. 
Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pillar, 
or we are torn 
Down the strong wave of brawlers. 
Crowd. God save their Graces ! 
[Processioji of Truynpeters^ Javelin- 
j?ien, etc. ; then Spanish and 
Flemish Nobles intermingled. 
Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! 
These black dog-Dons 
Garb themselves bravely. Who's the 

long-face there, 
Looks very Spain of very Spain ? 

Bagenhall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest ? 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 
Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, some 
secret that may cost 
PhiUp his life. 

Stafford. But then he looks so merry. 
Bageiihall. I cannot tell you why the}' 
call him so. 
\llie \s\ng and OnftQX\ pass, attended 



by Peers of the Realm, Officers of 
State, etc. Cannoji shot off. 

Croivd. Philip and Mary, Philip and 
Mary ! 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip 
and Mary ! 

Stafford. They smile as if content with 
one another. 

Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a 
scowl at home. 

[King a7id Queen pass on. Procession. 

First Citizen. I thought this Philip 
had been one of those black devils of 
Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. 

Seco7id Citizen. Not red like Iscariot's. 

First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as thou 
say'st, and English carrot's better than 
Spanish licorice ; but I thought he was a 
beast. 

Third Citizen. Certain I had heard 
that every Spaniard carries a tail like a 
devil under his trunk-hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk-hoses ! 
Lord I they be fine ; I never stitch'd none 
such. They make amends for the tails. 

Fourth Citizen. Tut ! every Spanish 
priest will tell you that all English heretics 
have tails. 

Fifth Citizen. Death and the Devil — 
if he find I have one — - 

Fourth Citizen. Lo ! thou hast call'd 
them up ! here they come — a pale horse 
for Death and Gardiner for the Devil. 

Enter Gardiner {turning back from the 
processioji) 

Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear thy 

cap before the Queen ? 
Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed 
among the crowd 
I cannot lift my hands unto my head. 
Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, 
some of you about him ! 
See there be others that can use their hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men ? 

Man. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave ? 
Ma7i. I am nobody, my Lord. 

Gardifter {shouting). God's passion .' 
knave, thy name ? 



QUEEN MARY 



607 



]\[an. I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee 
ears to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me [to 
Attendant). 
Attendant. Ay, my Lord. 

Gaj-diner. Knave, thou shalt lose thine 
ears and find thy tongue. 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that. 
\^Cominc^ before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted — the nine worthies 

— ay ! 
But then what's here ? King Harry with 

a scroll. 
Ha — Verbum Dei — verbum — word of 

God! 
God's passion ! do you know the knave 
that painted it? 
Attendant. I do, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 
And put some fresh device in lieu of 

it — 
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir ; 

ha? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attendant, I will, my Lord ; 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I 

am sure 
(Knowing the man) he wrought it igno- 

rantly. 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless loons 
That cannot spell Esaias from St. Paul, 
Make themselves drunk and mad, fly out 

and flare 
Into rebellions. I'll have their bibles 

burnt. 
The bible is the priest's. Ay ! fellow, 

what ! 
Stand staring at me ! shout, you gaping 
rogue ! 
Man. I have, my Lord, shouted till 

I am hoarse. 
Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, 

knave ? 
Man. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Gardiner. Knave, there be two. 
There be both King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout ! 



Man. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip. 

Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Mary and Philip ! 

Alan. Mary and Philip ! 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout 

for mine ! 
Philip and Mary ! 

Man. Must it be so, my Lord ? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 

Man. Philip and Mary ! 

Gardiner. I distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. 
What is thy name ? 

Man. Sanders. 

Gardiner. What else ? 

Man. Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live ? 

Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? 

Man. Sign of the Talbot. 

Gardiner. Come to me to-morrow. — 
Rascal ! — this land is like a hill of fire, 
One crater opens when another shuts. 
But so I get the laws against the heretic, 
Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, revived, 
I will show fire on my side — stake and 

fire- 
Sharp work and short. The knaves are 

easily cow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

^Exit. The cj-owd following. 

Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him 
murder'd as Becket was ? 

Bagenhall. No — murder fathers mur- 
der : but I say 
There is no man — there was one woman 

with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
I cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. Lady Jane ? 

Crowd {going off). God save their 
Graces ! 

Stafford. Did you see her die ? 

Bagenhall. No, no ; her innocent 
blood had blinded me. 



6o8 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



You call me too black -blooded — true 

enough 
Her dark dead blood is in my heart with 

mine. 
If ever I cry out against the Pope 
Her dark dead blood that ever moves 

with mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make the 

cry. 
Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell 

me how she died ? 
Bagenhall. Seventeen — and knew 

eight languages — in music 
Peerless — her needle perfect, and her 

learning 
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, so 

modest, 
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy 
Mismatch'd with her for policy ! I have 

heard 
She would not take a last farewell of him. 
She fear'd it might unman him for his end. 
She could not be unmann'd — no, nor 

outwoman'd — 
Seventeen — a rose of grace ! 
Girl never breathed to rival such a rose ; 
Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud. 
Stafford. Pray you go on. 
Bagenhall. She came upon the 

scaffold, 
And said she was condemn'd to die for 

treason ; 
She had but follow'd the device of those 
Her nearest kin : she thought they knew 

the laws. 
But for herself, she knew but little law, 
And nothing of the titles to the crown ; 
She had no desire for that, and wrung 

her hands, 
And trusted God would save her thro' the 

blood 
Of Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

Bagenhall. Then knelt and said the 

Miserere Mei — 
But all in English, mark you ; rose again. 
And, when the headsman pray'd to be 

forgiven, 
Said * You will give me my true crown 

at last, 



But do it quickly ' ; then all wept but 

she. 
Who changed not colour when she saw 

the block, 
But ask'd him, childlike : ' Will you take 

it off 
Before I lay me down ? ' ' No, m.adam,' 

he said. 
Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes 

were bound. 
She, with her poor blind hands feeling — 

' where is it ? 
Where is it?' — You must fancy that 

which follow'd. 
If you have heart to do it ! 

Crowd {in the distance). God save 

their Graces ! 
Stafford. Their Graces, our disgraces ! 

God confound them ! 
Why, she's grown bloodier ! when I last 

was here, 
This was against her conscience — would 

be murder ! 
Bagenhall. The ' Thou shalt do no 

murder,' which God's hand 
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd 

out pale — 
She could not make it white — and over 

that. 
Traced in the blackest text of Hell — 

' Thou shalt ! ' 
And sign'd it — Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 

Must have sign'd too. I hear this 

Legate's coming 
To bring us absolution from the Pope. 
The Lords and Commons will bow down 

before him — 
You are of the house ? what will you do, 

Sir Ralph ? 
Bagenhall. And why should I be 

bolder than the rest, 
Or honester than all ? 

Stafford. But, sir, if I — 

And oversea they say this state of yours 
Hath no more mortice than a tower of 

cards ; 
And that a puff would do it — then if I 
And others made that move I touch'd 

upon, 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



609 



Back'd by the power of France, and 

landing here, 
Came with a sudden splendour, shout, 

and show. 
And dazzled men and deafen'd by some 

bright 
Loud venture, and the people so unquiet — 
And I the race of murder'd Buckingham — 
Not for myself, but for the kingdom — 

Sir, 
I trust that you would fight along with us. 
Bagenhall. No ; you would fling your 

lives into the gulf. 
Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's 

like to do, 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone. 
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and 

make us 
A Spanish province ; would you not fight 

then ? 
Bagenhall. I think I should fight then. 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 

Hist ! there's the face coming on here of 

one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. 

Fare you well, 
You'll hear of me again. 

Bagenhall. Upon the scaffold. 

{^Exeunt, 



SCENE IL— Room in Whitehall 
Palace 

Mary. Enter Philip and 
Cardinal Pole 

Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Bene- 

dicta tu in mulieribus. 
Mary. Loyal and royal cousin, 
humblest thanks. 
Had you a pleasant voyage up the river ? 
Pole. We had your royal barge, and 
that same chair. 
Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. 
Our silver cross sparkled before the prow, 
The ripples twinkled at their diamond- 
dance, 
The boats that follow'd, were as glowing- 

T 



As regal gardens ; and your flocks of 

swans. 
As fair and white as angels ; and your 

shores 
Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise. 
My foreign friends, who dream'd us 

blanketed 
In ever-closing fog, were much amazed 
To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd 
Upon their lake of Garda, fire the 

Thames ; 
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; 
And here the river flowing from the sea, 
Not toward it (for they thought not of 

our tides), 
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make 

glide — 
In quiet — home your banish'd country- 
man. 
Mary. We heard that you were sick 

in Flanders, cousin. 
Pole. A dizziness. 
Mary. And how came you 

round again ? 
Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab 

saved her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the blood. 
Maiy. Well? now? 
Pole. Ay, cousin, as the 

heathen giant 
Had but to touch the ground, his force 

return'd — 
Thus, after twenty years of banishment, 
Feeling my native land beneath my foot, 
I said thereto : 'Ah, native land of mine. 
Thou art much beholden to this foot of 

mine. 
That hastes with full commission from 

the Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me, 
And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I return 
As Peter, but to bless thee : make me well.' 
Methinks the good land heard me, for to- 
day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see you, 

cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's 

death. 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's gate ,' 
2 R 



6io 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



And Mary would have risen and let him in, 
But, Mary, there were those within the 

house 
Who would not have it. 

Alary. True, good cousin Pole ; 

And there were also those without the 

house 
Who would not have it. 

Pole. I believe so, cousin. 

State-policy and church-policy are con- 
joint, 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued me. 
But all is well ; 'twas ev'n the will of God, 
Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, 

now, 
Makes nie his mouth of holy greeting. 

' Hail, 
Daughter of God, and saver of the faith. 
Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui ! ' 
Mary. Ah, heaven ! 
Pole. Unwell, your Grace ? 

Mary. No, cousin, happ)^ — 

Happy to see you ; never yet so happy 
Since I was crown'd. 

Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you gave 

your hand 
To this great Catholic King. 

Philip. Well said, Lord Legate. 

Mary, Nay, not well said ; I thought 
of you, my liege, 
Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam ; my Lord Paget 
Waits to present our Council to the Legate. 
Sit down here, all ; Madam, between us 
you. 
Pole. Lo, now you are enclosed with 
boards of cedar. 
Our little sister of the Song of Songs ! 
You are doubly fenced and shielded sitting 

here 
Between the two most high-set thrones 

on earth. 
The Emperor's highness happily symboU'd 

by 
The King your husband, the Pope's 

Holiness 
By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 



When will you that we summon both our 

houses 
To take this absolution from your lips, 
And be regather'd to the Papal fold ? 
Pole. In Britain's calendar the bright- 
est day 
Beheld our rough forefathers break their 

Gods, 
And clasp the faith in Christ ; but after that 
Might not St. Andrew's be her happiest 
day? 
Mary. Then these shall meet upon 
St. Andrew's day. 

Enter Paget, who presents the Council. 
Dtnub show 
Pole. I am an old man wearied with 
my journey, 
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to with- 
draw. 
To Lambeth ? 

Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted 

Cranmer. 
It was not meet the heretic swine should 

live 
In Lambeth. 

ATary. There or anywhere, or at all. 
Philip. We have had it swept and 

garnish'd after him. 
Pole. Not for the seven devils to enter 

in? 
Philip. No, for we trust they parted 

in the swine. 
Pole. True, and I am the Angel of 
the Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here — to me ; 

I will go with you to the waterside. 
Pole. Not be my Charon to the counter 

side? 
Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the 

Lord Chancellor goes. 
Pole. And unto no dead world ; but 
Lambeth Palace, 
Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 

YExetint Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. 

Manet Mary 
Mary. He hath awaked ! he hath 
awaked ! 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



6ii 



He stirs within the darkness ! 

Oh, PhiUp, husband ! now thy love to mine 

Will cling more close, and those bleak 

manners thaw, 
That make me shamed and tongue-tied 

in my love. 
The second Prince of Peace — 
The great unborn defender of the Faith, 
Who will avenge me of mine enemies — 
He comes, and my star rises. 
The stormy Wyatts and Northumberlands, 
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 
And all her fieriest partisans — are pale 
Before my star ! 
The light of this new learning wanes and 

dies : 
The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade 
Into the deathless hell which is their doom 
Before my star ! 

His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to Ind ! 
His sword shall hew the heretic peoples 

down ! 
His faith shall clothe the world that will 

be his. 
Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, 
Ye everlasting gates I The King is here ! — 
My star, my son ! 

Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. 

Oh, Philip, come with me ; 
Good news have I to tell you, news to 

make 
Both of us happy — ay, the Kingdom too. 
Nay come with me — one moment ! 

Philip {to Alva). More than that : 

There was one here of late — William the 

Silent 
They call him — he is free enough in talk, 
But tells me nothing. You will be, we 

trust. 
Sometime the viceroy of those provinces — 
He must deserve his surname better. 

Alva. Ay, sir ; 

Inherit the Great Silence. 

Philip. True ; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled ; 
Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind, 
All hollow'd out with stinging heresies ; 
And for their heresies, Alva, they will fight ; 
You must break them or they break you. 



Alva {proudly). The first. 

Philip. Good. 
Well, Madam, this newhappinessof mine ! 
\Exetmt, 

Enter Three Pages 

First Page. News, mates ! a miracle, 
a miracle ! news ! 
The bells must ring ; Te Deums must be 

sung; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her 
babe ! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
First Page. See what ? 

Second Page. This paper, Dickon. 

I found it fluttering at the palace gates : — 
' The Queen of England is delivered of a 
dead dog ! ' 
Third Page. These are the things 

that madden her. Fie upon it ! 
First Page. Ay ; but I hear she hath 
a dropsy, lad, 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so 
she have a dropsy ! 
I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are 

Roman to the core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine must 

be. Take heed ! 
First Page. Not I, 

And whether this flash of news be false 

or true. 
So the wine run, and there be revelry. 
Content am I. Let all the steeples clash, 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day. 
\_Exeiint. 

SCENE III.— Great Hall in 
Whitehall 

At the far end a dais. On this three 
chairs, tivo under one canopy for Mary 
atid Philip, another on the right oj 
these for Pole. Under the dais on 
Pole's side, ranged along the wall, 
sit all the Spiritual Peers, and along 
the zuall opposite, all the Temporal. 
The Commons on cross benches in front, 
a line of approach to the dais between 



6l2 



QUEEN MARY 



them. In the foTCgrotmd, SiR Ralph 
Bagenhall and othej- Members of the 
Commons. 

Fh-st Member. St. Andrew's day ; sit 

close, sit close, we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word ? the Pope again ? 
It must be thus ; and yet, cocksbody ! 

how strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with all of us 
Against this foreign marriage, should 

have yielded 
So utterly ! — strange ! but stranger still 

that he, 
So fierce against the Headship of the 

Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this 

pageant 
That brings him in ; such a cameleon he ! 
Second Meinber. This Gardiner turn'd 

his coat in Henry's time ; 
The serpent that hath slough'd will 

slough again. 
Third Member. Tut, then we all are 

serpents. 
Second Member. Speak for yourself. 
Third Member. Ay, and for Gardiner ! 

being English citizen, 
How should he bear a bridegroom out of 

Spain ? 
The Queen would have him ! being 

English churchman. 
How should he bear the headship of the 

Pope? 
The Queen would have it ! Statesmen 

that are wise 
Shape a necessity, as a sculptor clay, 
To their own model. 

Second Member. Statesmen that are 

wise 
Take truth herself for model. What say 

you ? \To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. We talk and talk. 
First Member. Ay, and what use to 

talk? 
Philip's no sudden alien — the Queen's 

husband, 
He's here, and king, or will be — yet 

cocksbody ! 
So hated here ! I watch'd a hive of late : 



My seven-years' friend was with me, my 

young boy ; 
Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm 

behind. 
' Philip ! ' says he. I had to cuff the rogue 
For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that bees. 
If any creeping life invade their hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build him 

round, 
And bind him in from harming of their 

combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong the 

realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of beeswax, 

like your creeping thing ; 
But your wise bees had stung him first 

to death. 
Third Member. Hush, hush ! 
You wrong the Chancellor : the clauses 

added 
To that same treaty which the emperor 

sent us 
Were mainly Gardiner's : that no foreigner 
Hold office in the household, fleet, forts, 

army ; 
That if the Queen should die without a 

child, 
The bond between the kingdoms be 

dissolved ; 
That Philip should not mix us any way 
With his French wars — 

Second Member. Ay, ay, but what 

security. 

Good sir, for this, if Philip 

Third Member. Peace — the Queen, 
Philip, and Pole. \^All rise, and stand. 

Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole 
[Gardiner conducts them to the three 
chairs of state. Philip sits on the 
Queen's left, Pole on her right. 
Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, before 
his winter plunge, 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew's 
Day. 
Alary. Should not this day be held in 
after years 
More solemn than of old ? 



QUEEN MARY 



613 



Philip. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty's. 

Pole. It shall be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 
Graces' ; {aside) but the Pope — 
Can we not have the Catholic church as 

well 
Without as with the Italian? if we cannot, 
Why then the Pope. 

My lords of the upper house, 
And ye, my masters, of the lower house, 
Do ye stand fast by that which ye resolved? 
Voices. We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind to 
supplicate 
The Legate here for pardon, and acknow- 
ledge 
The primacy of the Pope ? 

Voices. We are all one mind. 

Gardiner. Then must I play the vassal 
to this Pole. {Aside. 

[He drazvs a paper from under his 
robes and presents it to the King 
and Queen, who look through it 
and return it to him ; then ascends 
a tribune^ and reads. 
We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, 
And Commons here in Parliament as- 
sembled. 
Presenting the whole body of this realm 
Of England, and dominions of the same, 
Do make most humble suit unto your 

Majesties, 
In our own name and that of all the state, 
That by your gracious means and inter- 
cession 
Our supplication be exhibited 
To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here as 

Legate 
From our most Holy Father Julius, Pope, 
And from the Apostolic see of Rome ; 
And do declare our penitence and grief 
For our long schism and disobedience. 
Either in making laws and ordinances 
Against the Holy Father's primacy, 
Or else by doing or by speaking aught 
Which might impugn or prejudice the 

same ; 
By this our supplication promising. 
As well for our own selves as all the realm, 



That now we be and ever shall be quick, 
Under and with your Majesties' autho- 
rities. 
To do to the utmost all that in us lies 
Towards the abrogation and repeal 
Of all such laws and ordinances made ; 
Whereon we humbly pray your Majesties, 
As persons undefiled with our offence, 
So to set forth this humble suit of ours 
That we the rather by your intercession 
May from the Apostolic see obtain. 
Thro' this most reverend Father, absolu- 
tion. 
And full release from danger of all 

censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into. 
So that we may, as children penitent. 
Be once again received into the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church ; 
And that this noble realm thro' after years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Majesties. 
Voices. Amen. [All sit. 

[He agaiti presents the petition to the 
King and Queen, zvho hand it 
7'everentially to Pole. 
Pole {sitting). This is the loveliest day 
that ever smiled 
On England. All her breath should, 

incenselike, 
Rise to the heavens in grateful praise of 

Him 
Who now recalls her to His ancient fold. 
Lo ! once again God to this realm hath 

given 
A token of His more especial Grace ; 
For as this people were the first of all 
The islands call'd into the dawning church 
Out of the dead, deep night of heathen- 
dom. 
So now are these the first whom God 

hath given 
Grace to repent and sorrow for their 

schism ; 
And if your penitence be not mockery, 
Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do triumph at thi^ hour 
In the reborn salvation of a land 
So noble. [A pause. 



6i4 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not harm ; 
We come not to condemn, but reconcile ; 
We come not to compel, but call again ; 
We come not to destroy, but edify ; 
Nor yet to question things already done ; 
These are forgiven — matters of the past — 
And range with jetsam and with offal 

thrown 
Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. \A pause. 
Ye have reversed the attainder laid on us 
By him who sack'd the house of God ; 

• and we, 
Amplier than any field on our poor earth 
Can render thanks in fruit for being sown, 
Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, 
A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand-fold, 
With heaven for earth. 

\_Risingandstretchingforthhis hands. 

All kneel but Sir Ralph Bagenhall, 

ivho rises and remains standing. 

The Lord who hath redeem'd us 

With His own blood, and wash'd us from 

our sins, 
To purchase for Himself a stainless bride ; 
He, whom the Father hath appointed 

Head 
Of all his church. He by His mercy 
absolve you ! \A panse. 

And we by that authority Apostolic 
Given unto us, his Legate, by the Pope, 
Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, 
God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon earth. 
Do here absolve you and deliver you 
And every one of you, and all the realm 
And its dominions from all heresy. 
All schism, and from all and every cen- 
sure. 
Judgment, and pain accruing thereupon ; 
And also we restore you to the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church. 

[ Ttirning to Gardiner. 
Our letters of commission will declare 
this plainlier. 
[Queen heard sobbing. Cries of 
Amen ! Amen ! Some of the 
Members embrace one another. 
All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall pass 
oiii into the neighbouring chapel, 
whence is heard- the Te I)eum. 



Bagenhall. ' We strove against the 

papacy from the first. 
In William's time, in our first Edward's 

time. 
And in my master Henry's time ; but now. 
The unity of Universal Church, 
Mary would have it ; and this Gardiner 

follows ; 
The unity of Universal Hell, 
Philip would have it ; and this Gardiner 

follows ! 
A Parliament of imitative apes ! 
Sheep at the gap which Gardiner takes, 

who not 
Believes the Pope, nor any of them 

believe — 
These spaniel - Spaniard English of the 

time, 
Who rub their fawning noses in the dust. 
For that is Philip's gold-dust, and adore 
This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I had 

been 
Born Spaniard ! I had held my head up 

then. 
I aVn ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 
English. 

Ejiter Officer 

Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall ! 
Bagenhall. What of that ? 

Officer. You were the one sole man in 
either house 
Who stood upright when both the houses 
fell. 
Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 
Officer. I mean the houses knelt 

Before the Legate. 

Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your 

phrase, 
But stretch it wider ; say when England 
fell. 
Officer. I say you were the one sole 

man who stood. 
Bagenhall. I am the one sole man in 
either house. 
Perchance in England, loves her like a son. 
Officer. Well, you one man, because 
you stood upright. 
Her Grace the Queen commands you to 
the Tower. 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



615 



Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, 

or for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any way would 
be 
The one man, he shall be so to his cost. 
Bagenhall. Wliat ! will she have my 

head ? 
Office^'. A round fine likelier. 

Your pardon. {Calling to Attendaut. 

By the river to the Tower. {Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.— Whitehall. 
IN THE Palace 



A Room 



Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, 
Bonner, etc. 

Mary. The King and I, my Lords, 
now that all traitors 

Against our royal state have lost the heads 

Wherewith they plotted in their treason- 
ous malice, 

Have talk'd together, and are well agreed 

That those old statutes touching Lollard- 
ism 

To bring the heretic to the stake, should be 

No longer a dead letter, but requicken'd. 

One of the Cottncil. Why, what hath 

fluster' d Gardiner ? how he rubs 

His forelock ! 

Paget. I have changed a word with 
him 

In coming, and may change a word again. 
Gardiner. Madam, your Highness is 
our sun, the King 

And you together our two suns in one ; 

And so the beams of both may shine upon 
us. 

The faith that seem'd to droop will feel 
your light, 

Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light 
alone. 

There must be heat — there must be heat 
enough 

To scorch and wither heresy to the root. 

For what saith Christ ? ' Compel them 
to come in.' 

And what saith Paul ? ' I would they 
were cut off" 

That trouble you.' Let the dead letter live ! 



Trace it in fire, that all the louts to whom 
Their A B C is darkness, clowns and 

grooms 
May read it ! so you quash rebellion too. 
For heretic and traitor are all one : 
Twovipers of one breed — an amphisbsena, 
Each end a sting : Let the dead letter 
burn ! 
Paget. Yet there be some disloyal 
Catholics, 
And many heretics loyal ; heretic throats 
Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So there be 
Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and cord. 
To take the lives of others that are loyal, 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom of 

fire. 

Were but a thankless policy in the crown. 

Ay, and against itself; for there are many. 

Mary. If we could burn out heresy, 

my Lord Paget, 

We reck not tho' we lost this crown of 

England — 
Ay ! tho' it were ten Englands ! 

Gardiner. Right, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for this poor life of ours, 

And care but little for the life to be. 

Paget. I have some time, for curious- 

ness, my Lord, 

Watch'd children playing at their life to 

be. 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; 
Such is our time — all times for aught I 
know. 
Gai'diner. We kill the heretics that 
sting the soul — 
They, with right reason, flies that prick 
the flesh. 
Paget. They had not reach'd right 
reason ; little children ! 
They kill'd but for their pleasure and the 

power 
They felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! 

Why, good ! what then ? granted I — we 

are fallen creatures ; 
Look to your Bible, Paget ! M^eare fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laity, my Lord 
Bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I found 



6i6 



QUEEN MARY 



One day, a wholesome scripture, ' Little 

children, 
Love one another.' 

Gardiner. Did you find a scripture, 
' I come not to bring peace but a sword ' ? 

The sword 
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with, 

Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy. 
You are more than guess'd at as a heretic, 
And on the steep-up track of the true faith 
Your lapses are far seen. 

Paget. The faultless Gardiner ! 

Mary. You brawl beyond the ques- 
tion ; speak. Lord Legate ! 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with 

your Grace : 
Rather would say — the shepherd doth 

not kill 
The sheep that wander from his flock, but 

sends 
His careful dog to bring them to the fold. 
Look to the Netherlands, wherein have 

been 
Such holocausts of heresy ! to what end ? 
For yet the faith is not established there. 
Gardiner. The end's not come. 
Pole. No — nor this way 

will come, 
Seeing there lie two ways to every end, 
A better and a worse — the worse is here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who persecutes : when men are tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not sure 
Of their own selves, they are wroth with 

their own selves. 
And thence with others ; then, who lights 

the faggot ? 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking 

doubt. 
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the 

Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these 

were trembling — 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's ? 

Pole. Y/hat, my Lord \ 



The Church on Peter's rock ? never ! I 

have seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract ; firm stood the pine — 
The cataract shook the shadow. To my 

mind, 
The cataract typed the headlong plunge 

and fall 
Of heresy to the pit : the pine was Rome. 
You see, ray Lords, 
It was the shadow of the Church that 

trembled ; 
Your church was but the shadow of a 

church. 
Wanting the Papal mitre. 

Gardiner [nncttcrijig). Here be tropes. 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe a 

naked truth. 
And make it look more seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. You are hard to please. Then 

without tropes, my Lord, 
An overmuch severeness, I repeat. 
When faith is wavering makes the waverer 

pass 
Into more settled hatred of the doctrines 
Of those who rule, which hatred by and by 
Involves the ruler (thus there springs to 

light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Common- 
weal, 
The traitor-heretic) then tho' some may 

quail, 
Yet others are that dare the stake and fire. 
And their strong torment bravely borne, 

begets 
An admiration and an indignation. 
And hot desire to imitate ; so the plague 
Of schism spreads ; were there but three 

or four 
Of these misleaders, yet I would not say 
Burn ! and we cannot burn whole towns ; 

they are many. 
As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet my Lord Cardinal — 
Pole. I am your Legate ; please you 

let me finish. 
Methinks that under our Queen's regimen 
We might go softlier than with crimson 

rowel 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



617 



And streaming lash. When Herod- 
Henry first 
Began to batter at your English Church, 
This was the cause, and hence the judg- 
ment on her. 
She seethed with such adulteries, and the 

lives 
Of many among your churchmen were so 

foul 
That heaven wept and earth blush'd. I 

would advise 
That we should thoroughly cleanse the 

Church within 
Before these bitter statutes be requicken'd. 
So after that when she once more is seen 
White as the light, the spotless bride of 

Christ, 
Like Christ himself on Tabor, possibly 
The Lutheran may be won to her again ; 
Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance. 
Gardhier. What, if a mad dog bit 
your hand, my Lord, 
Would you not chop the bitten finger ofif. 
Lest your whole body should madden 

with the poison ? 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the 

heretic. 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a land 
Is bounden by his power and place to see 
His people be not poison'd. Tolerate 

them ! 
Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, many 

of them 
Would burn — have burnt each other ; 

call they not 
The one true faith, a loathsome idol- 
worship ? 
Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime 
Than heresy is itself ; beware, I say. 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faiths, all religion ; for you know 
Right well that you yourself have been 

supposed 
Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. 
Pole {angered). But you, my Lord, 
beyond all supposition. 
In clear and open day were congruent 
With that Adle Cranmer in the accursed lie 
Of good Queen Catharine's divorce — the 
spring 



Of all those evils that have flow'd upon 

us ; 
For you yourself have truckled to the 

tyrant. 
And done your best to bastardise our 

Queen, 
For which God's righteous judgment fell 

upon you 
In your five years of imprisonment, my 

Lord, 
Under young Edward. Who so bolster'd 

The gross King's headship of the Church, 

or more 
Denied the Holy Father ! 

Gardiner. Ha ! what ! eh ? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, 
A bookman, flying from the heat and 

tussle. 
You lived among your vines and oranges, 
In your soft Italy yonder ! You were 

sent for. 
You were appeal'd to, but you still 

preferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I did 
I sufifer'd and repented. You, Lord 

Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to 

learn 
That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my 

Lord. 
Pole. But not for five -and -twenty 

years, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then 

I was summon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, 

friend Bonner, 
x\nd tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal. 
The Church's evil is not as the King's, 
Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The mad 

bite 
Must have the cautery — tell him — and at 

once. 
What would'st thou do hadst thou his 

power, thou 
That layest so long in heretic bonds with 

me ; 
Would'st thou not burn and blast them 

root and branch ? 



5i8 



QUEEN MARY 



Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, before 

me ! speak ! 
Bonner. I am on fire until I see them 

flame. 
Ga7-diner. Ay, the psahn - singing 

weavers, cobblers, scum — 
But this most noble prince Plantagenet, 
Our good Queen's cousin — dallying over 

seas 
Even when his brother's, nay, his noble 

mother's, 
Head fell— 

Pole. Peace, madman ! 

Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not 

fathom. 
Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chan- 
cellor 
Of England ! no more rein upon thine 

anger 
Than any child ! Thou mak'st me much 

ashamed 
That I was for a moment wroth at thee. 
Alary. I come for counsel and ye give 

me feuds. 
Like dogs that set to watch their master's 

gate, 
Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the 

walls, 
To worrying one another. My Lord 

Chancellor, 
You have an old trick of offending us ; 
And but that you are art and part with us 
In purging heresy, well we might, for this 
Your violence and much roughness to the 

Legate, 
Have shut you from our counsels. 

Cousin Pole, 
You are fresh from brighter lands. Re- 
tire with me. 
His Highness and myself (so you allow 

us) 
Will let you learn in peace and privacy 
What power this cooler sun of England 

hath 
In breeding godless vermin. And pray 

Heaven 
That you may see according to our sight. 
Come, cousin. 

\^Excunt Queen and Pole, etc. 



Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet 

face. 
But not the force made them our mightiest 

kings. 
Fine eyes — but melancholy, irresolute — 
A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine 

beard. 
But a weak mouth, an indeterminate — ha? 
Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, per- 
chance. 
Gardiner. And not like thine 

To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. 
Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord ; 

but yet the Legate 
Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, 
And if he go not with you — 

Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, 

Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he 

flush'd ? 
Touch him upon his old heretical talk. 
He'll burn a diocese to prove his ortho- 
doxy. 
And let him call me truckler. In those 

times, 
Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck, 

or die ; 
I kept my head for use of Holy Church ; 
And see you, we shall have to dodge 

again, 
And let the Pope trample our rights, and 

plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Church 
To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. 
For a time, for a time. 
Why ? that these statutes may be put in 

force, 
And that his fan may thoroughly purge 

his floor. 
Bonner. So then yon hold the Pope — 
Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! 

What do I hold him ? what do I hold 

the Pope ? 
Come, come, the morsel stuck — this 

Cardinal's fault — 
I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for 

the Pope, 
Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless chair, 
Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred king 

of kings. 



;CENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



619 



God upon eartli ! what more ? what wauld 

you have ? 
Hence, let's be gone. 

Enter UsHER 

Usher. Well that you be not gone, 
My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at 

first with you, 
Is now content to grant you full forgive- 
ness. 
So that you crave full pardon of the 

Legate. 
I am sent to fetch you. 

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha ! 
Did you hear 'em ? were you by ? 

Usher. I cannot tell you, 

His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; 
And yet methinks he falters : their two 

Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin him. 
So press on him the duty which as Legate 
He owes himself, and with such royal 

smiles — 
Gardiner. Smiles that burn men, 

Bonner, it will be carried. 
He falters, ha? 'fore God, we change 

and change ; 
Men now are bow'd and old, the doctors 

tell you, 
At three-score years ; then if we change 

at all 
We needs must do it quickly ; it is an age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and brief 

patience. 
As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it 
If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend 

Cranmer, 
Your more especial love, hath turn'd so 

often. 
He knows not where he stands, which, 

if this pass, 
We two shall have to teach him ; let 'em 

look to it, 
Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and Latimer, 
Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come, 
Their hour is hard at hand, their ' dies 

Iroe,' 
Their ' dies Ilia,' which will test their sect. 
I feel it but a duty — you will find in it 
Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bonner, — 



To test their sect. Sir, I attend the Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of her most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. 
\^Exeunt. 

SCENE v.— Woodstock 
Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting 

Elizabeth. So they have sent poor 

Courtenay over sea. 
Lady. And banish'd us to Woodstock, 
and the fields. 
The colours of our Queen are green and 

white. 
These fields are only green, they make 
me gape. 
Elizabeth. There's whitethorn, girl. 
Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. 

But court is always May, buds out in 

masques. 
Breaks into feather'd merriments, and 

flowers 
In silken pageants. Why do they keep 

us here ? 
Why still suspect your Grace ? 

Elizabeth. Hard upon both. 

[ Writes on the windoiu with a diamond. 

Much suspected, of me 
Nothing proven can be. 

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Lady. What hath your Highness 
written ? 

Elizabeth. A true rhyme. 

Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to last 
like truth. 

Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 

Lady. But truth, they say, will cut, 
So it must last. It is not like a word. 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. Truth, a word ! 

The very Truth and very Word are one. 
But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl, 
Is like a word that comes from olden days, 
And passes thro' the peoples : every tongue 
Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks 
Quite other than at first. 

Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How many names in the 
long sweep of time 



620 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



That so foreshortens greatness, may but 

hang 
On the chance mention of some fool that 

once 
Brake bread with us, perhaps : and ray 

poor chronicle 
Is but of glass. Sir Henry Bedingfield 
May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Grace's innocence, 
Till doomsday melt it. 

Elizabeth. Or a second fire, 

Like that which lately crackled underfoot 
And in this very chamber, fuse the glass. 
And char us back again into the dust 
We spring from. Never peacock against 

rain 
Scream'd as you did for water. 

Lady. And I got it. 

T woke Sir Henry — and he's true to you — 
I read his honest horror in his eyes. 
Elizabeth. Or true to you ? 
Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! 

I will have no man true to me, your Grace, 
But one that pares his nails ; to me ? the 

clown ! 
Elizabeth. Out, girl ! you wrong a 

noble gentleman. 
Lady. For, like his cloak, his man- 
ners want the nap 
And gloss of court ; but of this fire he says. 
Nay swears, it was no wicked wilfulness. 
Only a natural chance. 

Elizabeth. A chance — perchance 

One of those wicked wilfuls that men 

make, 
Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I know 
They hunt my blood. Save for my daily 

range 
Among the pleasant fields of Holy Writ 
I might despair. But there hath some 

one come ; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, 

and see. \Exit Lady. 

Milkmaid [singitig without) 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kiss me would you ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 



Daisies grow again, 
Kingcups blow again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well I vow ; 
Cuff him could I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 
Help it can I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Ringdoves coo again, 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! 

Elizabeth. Right honest and red- 

cheek'd ; Robin was violent. 
And she was crafty — a sweet violence, 
And a sweet craft. I would I were a 

milkmaid. 
To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake, 

and die. 
Then have my simple headstone by the 

church, 
And all things lived and ended honestly. 
I could not if I would. I am Harry's 

daughter : 
Gardiner would have my head. They are 

not sweet. 
The violence and the craft that do divide 
The world of nature ; what is weak must 

lie; 
The lion needs but roar toguard his young; 
The lapwing lies, says ' here ' when they 

are there. 
Threaten the child ; ' I'll scourge you if 

you did it ' : 
What weapon hath the child, save his 

soft tongue, 
To say ' I did not ' ? and my rod's the block. 
I never lay my head upon the pillow 
But that I think, ' Wilt thou lie there to- 
morrow ? ' 
How oft the falling axe, that never fell. 
Hath shock'd me back into the daylight 

truth 
That it may fall to-day ! Those damp, 

black, dead 



QUEEN MARY 



621 



Nights in the Tower ; dead — Vvith . tlie 

fear of death 
Too dead ev'n for a death-watch ! Toll 

of a bell, 
Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat 
Affrighted me, and then delighted me. 
For there was life — And there was life in 

death — 
The little murder'd princes, in a pale light, 
Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, ' come 

away ! 
The civil wars are gone for evermore : 
Thou last of all the Tudors, come away ! 
With us is peace ! ' The last ? It was a 

dream ; 
I must not dream, not wink, but watch. 

She has gone, 
Maid Marian to her Robin — by and by 
Both happy ! a fox mayfilchahenbynight, 
And make a morning outcry in the yard ; 
But there's no Renard here to * catch her 

tripping.' 
Catch me who can ; yet, sometime I have 

wish'd 
That I were caught, and kill'd away at once 
Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, 

Gardiner, 
Went on his knees, and pray'd me to confess 
In Wyatt's business, and to cast myself 
Upon the good Queen's mercy; ay, when, 

my Lord ? 
God save the Queen ! My jailor — 

Enter Sir Henry Bedingfield 
Bedingjield. One, whose bolts, 

That jail you from free life, bar you from 

death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout 
Would murder you. 

Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir, 
But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, 
And God hath blest or cursed me with a 

nose — 
Your boots are from the horses. 

Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady. 

When next there comes a missive from 

the Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiness, 
Before I dare to glance upon your Grace. 



Elizabeth. A missive from the Queen : 
last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it takes 
my breath : 

God, sir, do you look upon your boots, 
Are you so small a man ? Help me : 

what think you. 
Is it life or death ? 

Bedingfield. I thought not on my 
boots ; 
The devil take all boots were ever made 
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it 

here, 
For I will come no nearer to your Grace ; 
\^Laying down the letter. 
And, whether it bring you bitter news or 

sweet. 
And God hath given your Grace a nose, 

or not, 
I'll help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. Your pardon, then ; 

It is the heat and narrowness of the cage 
That makes the captive testy ; with free 

wing 
The worl'd were all one Araby. Leave 

me now. 
Will you, companion to myself, sir ? 

Bedingfield. Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I will ; 
You know I never come till I be call'd. 

\^Exit. 

Elizabeth. It lies there folded : is there 

venom in it ? 

A snake — and if I touch it, it may sting. 

Come, come, the worst ! 

Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. 

^Reads : 

' It is the King's wish, that you 
should wed Prince Philibert of Savoy. 
You are to come to Court on the instant ; 
and think of this in your coming. 

' Mary the Queen.' 

Think ! I have many thoughts ; 

1 think there may be birdlime here for 

me ; 
I think they fain would have me from the 

realm ; 
I think the Queen may never bear a 

child : 



622 



QUEEN MAR V 



I think that I may be some time the 

Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince 

or priest 
Should fill my throne, myself upon the 

steps. 
I think I will not marry anyone. 
Specially not this landless Philibert 
Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me, 
I think that I will play with Philibert, — 
As once the Holy Father did with 

mine, 
Before my father married my good 

mother, — 
For fear of Spain. 

Enfer Lady 

Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your 

Grace, 
I feel so happy : it seems that we shall 

fly 
These bald, blank fields, and dance into 

the sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, 

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing 

here, 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and 

flowers — 
A right rough life and healthful. 

Lady. But the wench 

Plath her own troubles ; she is weeping 

now ; 
For the wrong Robin took her at her 

word. 
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk 

was spilt. 
Your Highness such a milkmaid ? 

Elizabeth. I liad kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter 

order 
Had I been such. 

Lady {slylv). And had your Grace a 

Robin ? 
Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill 

here ; you want the sun 
That shines at court ; make ready for the 

journey. 
Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. 

Ready at once. yExetmt. 



SCENE VL— London. A Room in 
THE Palace 

Lord Petre and Lord William 
Howard 

Petre. You cannot see the Queen. 
Renard denied her, 
Ev'n now to me. 

Hoivard. Their Flemish go-between 
And all-in-all. I came to thank her 

Majesty 
For freeing my friend Bagenhall from the 

Tower ; 
A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of- grace, 
Flowers now but seldom. 

Petre. Only now perhaps, 

Because the Queen hath been three days 

in tears 
For Philip's going — like the wild hedge- 
rose 
Of a soft winter, possible, not probable, 
However you have prov'n it. 

Howard. I must see her. 

Enter Renard 

Renard. My Lords, you cannot see 

her Majesty. 
LLoward. Why then the King ! for I 

would have him bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes past, 
Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in his 

heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own self — 
Beast ! — but they play with fire as chil- 
dren do. 
And burn the house. I know that these 

are breeding 
A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in men 
Against the King, the Queen, the Holy 

Father, 
The faith itself. Can I not see him ? 

Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 
Is flint of flint, you may strike fire from 

her. 
Not hope to melt her. I will give yout 

message. 

{^Exeunt Petre and Howard. 



QUE EN MARY 



623 



Enter Philip {imising) 

Philip. She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy, 
I talk'd with her in vain — says she will 

live 
And die true maid — a goodly creature too. 
Would she had been the Queen ! yet she 

must have him ; 
She troubles England : that she breathes 

in England 
Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 
That passes out of embryo. 

Simon Renard ! — 
This Howard, whom they fear, what was 

he saying? 
Renard. What your imperial father 

said, my liege, 
To deal with heresy gentlier, Gardiner 

burns. 
And Bonner burns ; and it would seem 

this people 
Care more for our brief life in their wet 

land, 
Than yours in happier Spain. I told my 

Lord 
He should not vex her Highness ; she 

would say 
These are the means God works with, 

that His church 
May flourish. 

Philip. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship 
To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. 
Thou knowest I bad my chaplain, Castro, 

preach 
Against these burnings. 

Renard. And the Emperor 

Approved you, and when last he wrote, 

declared 
His comfort in your Grace that you were 

bland 
And affable to men of all estates. 
In hope to charm them from their hate of 

Spain. 
Philip. In hope to crush all heresy 

under Spain. 
But, Renard, I am sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing hence, 
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this child. 



Is it the fashion in this clime for women 
To go twelve months in bearing of a 

child ? 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, 

they led 
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their 

bells, 
Shot off their lying cannon, and her 

priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair 

prince to come ; 
Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool. 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus? 
Renard. I never saw your Highness 

moved till now. 
Philip. So weary am I of this wet 

land of theirs, 
And every soul of man that breathes 

therein. 
Renard. My liege, we must not drop 

the mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. — Have I dropt it ? 

I have but shown a loathing face to you. 
Who knew it from the first. 

Enter Mary 

Mary {aside). With Renard. Still 
Parleying with Renard, all the day with 

Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for me — 
And goes to-morrow. {Exit Mary. 

Philip {to Renard, zvho advances to 
him). Well, sir, is there more ? 
Renard {who has perceived the Queen). 
May Simon Renard speak a single 
word ? 
Philip . Kj. 

Renard. And be forgiven for it ? 
Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too well to speak a single word 
That could not be forgiven. 

Renard. Well, my liege. 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving 
wife. 
Philip. Why not? The Queen of 

Philip should be chaste. 
Rena}-d. Ay, but, my Lord, you know 
what Virgil sings, 
Woman is various and most mutable. 



624 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Philip. She play the harlot ! never. 

Renard. No, sire, no, 

Not dream'd of by the rabidest gospeller. 

There was a paper thrown into the palace, 

' The King hath wearied of his barren 

bride.' 
She came upon it, read it, and then rent it. 
With all the rage of one who hates a 

truth 
He cannot but allow. Sire, I would 

have you — 
What should I say, I cannot pick my 

words — 
Be somewhat less — majestic to your 

Queen. 
Philip. Am I to change my manners, 

Simon Renard, 
Because these islanders are brutal beasts ? 
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer, 
And warble those brief- sighted eyes of 

hers ? 
Renard. Brief - sighted tho' they be, 

I have seen them, sire. 
When you perchance were trifling royally 
With some fair dame of court, suddenly 

fill 
With such fierce fire — had it been fire 

indeed 
It would have burnt both speakers. 

Philip. Ay, and then ? 

Renard. Sire, might it not be policy 

in some matter 
Of small importance now and then to 

cede 
A point to her demand ? 

Philip. Well, I am going. 

Renard. For should her love when 

you are gone, my liege, 
Witness these papers, there will not be 

wanting 
Those that will urge her injury — should 

her love — 
And I have known such women more 

than one — 
Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy 
Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse 
Almost into one metal love and hate, — 
And she impress her wrongs upon her 

Council, 
And these again upon her Parliament — 



We are not loved here, and would be 

then perhaps i 

Not so well holpen in our wars with ' 
France, 

As else we might be — here she comes. 

Enter Mary 
Mary. O Philip ! 

Nay, must you go indeed ? 

Philip. Madam, I must. 

Alary. The parting of a husband and 
a wife 
Is like the cleaving of a heart ; one half 
Will flutter here, one there. 

Philip. You say true. Madam. 

Mary. The Holy Virgin will not have 
me yet 
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a 

prince. 
If such a prince were born and you not 
here ! 
Philip. I should be here if such a 

prince were born. 
Mary. But must you go ? 
Philip. Madam, you know my father, 
Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to 

heaven. 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all the 

world 
From off his neck to mine. We meet at 

Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be for 

long, 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me. 
And wait my coming back. 

Mary. To Dover? no, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich, 
So you will have me with you ; and there 

watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of 

heaven 
Draw with your sails from our poor land, 

and pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers 
for you. 
Philip. And doubtless I shall profit . 

by your prayers. 
Mary. Methinks that would you tarry 
one day more 



ACT IV 



QUEEN MARY 



625 



(The news was sudden) I could mould 

myself 
To bear your going better ; will you do 

it? 
Philip. Madam, a day may sink or 

save a realm. 
Mary. A day may save a heart from 

breaking too. 
Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall we 

stop a day ? 
Renard. Your Grace's business will 

not suffer, sire, 
For one day more, so far as I can tell. 
Philip. Then one day more to please 

her Majesty. 
Mary. The sunshine sweeps across 

my life again. 

if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, 
As I do ! 

Philip. By St. James I do protest. 
Upon the faith and honour of a Spaniard, 

1 am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty. 
Simon, is supper ready ? 

Renard. Ay, my liege, 

I saw the covers laying. 

Philip. Let us have it. \Exe2tnt. 



ACT IV 

SCENE I.— A Room in the Palace 

Mary, Cardinal Pole 

Mary. What have you there ? 
Pole. So please your Majesty, 

A long petition from the foreign exiles 
To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop 

Thirlby, 
And my Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
Crave, in the same cause, hearing of your 

Grace. 
Hath he not written himself — infatuated — 
To sue you for his life ? 

Mary. Plis life ? Oh, no ; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were in 

vain. 
But so much of the anti-papal leaven 
Works in him yet, he hath pray'd me not 
to sully 
T 



Mine own prerogative, and degrade the 
realm 

By seeking justice at a stranger's hand 
Against my natural subject. King and 

Queen, 
To whom he owes his loyalty after God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince? 
Death would not grieve him more. I 

cannot be 
True to this realm of England and the 

' Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

Pole. And there errs ; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul ; and in itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of heaven 
Into a body generate. 

Mary. Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 

Pole. Here come the Cranmerites ! 

Enter Thirlby, Lord Paget, Lord 
William Howard 
Howard. Health to your Grace ! 
, Good morrow, my Lord Cardinal ; 
We make our humble prayer unto your 

Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to foreign 

parts. 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations. Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 

Paget. Ay, ay ; if Bonner have not 

forged the bills. \Aside. 

Mary. Did not More die, and Fisher? 

he must burn. 
Howard. He hath recanted. Madam. 
Mai-y. The better for him. 

He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. 
Howai'd. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but it 
was never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on 
earth. 
Mary. It will be seen now, then. 
Thirlby. O Madam, Madam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my knees, 
2 S 



626 



QUEEN MARY 



To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. 

I have err'd with him ; with him I have 
recanted. 

What human reason is there why my 
friend 

Should meet with lesser mercy than my- 
self? 
Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After 
a riot 

We hang the leaders, let their following 
go. 

Cranrfier is head and father of these here- 
sies, 

New learning as they call it ; yea, may 
God 

Forget me at most need when I forget 

Her foul divorce — my sainted mother — 
No!— 
Howard. Ky, ay, but mighty doctors 
doubted there. 

The Pope himself waver'd ; and more 
than one 

Row'd in that galley — Gardiner to wit, 

Whom truly I deny not to have been 

Your faithful friend and trusty councillor. 

Hath not your Highness ever read his 
book. 

His tractate upon True Obedience, 

Writ by himself and Bonner ? 

Mary. I will take 

Such order with all bad, heretical books 

That none shall hold them in his house 
and live. 

Henceforward. No, my Lord. 

Howard. Then never read it. 

The truth is here. Your father was a man 

Of such colossal kinghood, yet so cour- 
teous, 

Except when wroth, you scarce could 
meet his eye 

And hold your own ; and were he wroth 
indeed. 

You held it less, or not at all. I say. 

Your father had a will that beat men 
down — 

Your father had a brain that beat men 
down — 
Pole. Not me, my Lord. 
Howard. No, for you were not here ; 

You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's throne ; 



And it would more become you, my Lord 

Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her High- 
ness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer than to stand 
On naked self-assertion. 

Mary. All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must 

burn. 
Hozvard. Yet once he saved your 

Majesty's own life ; 
Stood out against the King in your behalf. 
At his own peril. 

Mary. I know not if he did ; 

And if he did I care not, my Lord Howard. 
My life is not so happy, no such boon, 
That I should spare to take a heretic 

priest's. 
Who saved it or not saved. Why do you 

vex me ? 
Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were to 

serve the Church, 
Your Majesty's I mean ; he is effaced. 
Self- blotted out ; so wounded in his 

honour. 
He can but creep down into some dark 

hole 
Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and 

die ; 
But if you burn him, — well, your High- 
ness knows 
The saying, ' Martyr's blood — seed of the 

Church.' 
Mary. Of the true Church ; but his 

is none, nor will be. 
You are too politic for me, my Lord 

Paget. 
And if he have to live so loath'd a life. 
It were more merciful to burn him now. 
Thirlby. O yet relent. O, Madam, 

if you knew him 
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious. 
With all his learning — 

Mary. Yet a heretic still. 

His learning makes his burning the more 

just. 
Thirlby. So worshipt of all these that 

came across him ; 
The stranger at his hearth, and all his 

house — 



QUEEN MARY 



627 



Majy, His children and his concubine, 

behke. 
Thirlby. To do him any wrong was 
to beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart was rich, 
Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd 

therein 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. 
Pole. ' After his kind it costs him 
nothing,' there's 
An old world English adage to the point. 
These are but natural graces, my good 

Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as 

flowers, 
But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. 
Howard. Such weeds make dunghills 

gracious. 
Mary. Enough, my Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will. 
And Philip's will, and mine, that he 

should burn. 
He is pronounced anathema. 

Howard. Farewell, Madam, 

God grant you ampler mercy at your call 
Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

\_Exennt Lords. 
Pole. After this. 

Your Grace will hardly care to overlook 
This same petition of the foreign exiles 
For Cranmer's life. 

Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 
{^Exeunt. 

SCENE n. — Oxford. Cranmer in 
Prison 

Cranmer. Last night, I dream'd the 

faggots were alight, 
And that myself was fasten'd to the stake. 
And found it all a visionary flame. 
Cool as the light in old decaying wood ; 
And then King Harry look'd from out a 

cloud, 
And bad me have good courage ; and I 

heard 
An angel cry ' There is more joy in 

Heaven,' — 
And after that, the trumpet of the dead. 
{Trumpets without. 



Why, there are trumpets blowing now : 
what is it ? 

Enter Father Cole 
Cole. Cranmer, I come to question 
you again ; 
Have you remain'd in the true Catholic 

faith 
I left you in ? 

Cranmer. In the true Catholic faith, 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and more 

confirm'd. 
Why are the trumpets blowing, Father 
Cole? 
Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the 
Council 
That you to-day should read your recant- 
ation 
Before the people in St. Mary's Church. 
And there be many heretics in the 

town. 
Who loathe you for your late return to 

Rome, 
And might assail you passing through the 

street. 
And tear you piecemeal : so you have a 
guard. 
Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I 

thank the Council. 
Cole. Do you lack any money ? 
Cranmer. Nay, why should I ? 

The prison fare is good enough for me. 
Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 
Cranmer. Hand it me, then ! 

I thank you. 

Cole. For a little space, farewell ; 

Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. 

{Exit Cole. 
Cranmer. It is against all precedent 
to burn 
One who recants ; they mean to pardon 

me. 
To give the poor — they give the poor 

who die. 
Well, burn me or not burn me I am 

fixt; 
It is but a communion, not a mass : 
A holy supper, not a sacrifice ; 
No man can make his Maker — Villa 
Garcia. 



628 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



Enter Villa Garcia 

Villa Garcia. Pray you write out this 

paper for me, Cranmer. 
Cranuier. Have I not writ enough to 

satisfy you ? 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranjner. Give it me, then. 

\^He writes. 
Villa Gaj'cia. Now sign. 

Cranvier. I have sign'd enough, and 

I will sign no more. 
Villa Garcia. It is no more than what 
you have sign'd already, 
The public form thereof. 

Granmer. It may be so ; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 
Villa Garcia. But this is idle of you. 
Well, sir, well. 
You are to beg the people to pray for you ; 
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life ; 
Declare the Queen's right to the throne ; 

confess 
Your faith before all hearers ; and retract 
That Eucharistic doctrine in your book. 
Will you not sign it now ? 

Cranmer, No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have mercy 

on me ? 

Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes 

of mercy ! So, farewell. \^Exit. 

Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, 

have I that I am fixt, 

Fixt beyond fall ; however, in strange 

hours, 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies, 
And thousand-times recurring argument 
Of those two friars ever in my prison. 
When left alone in my despondency, 
Without a friend, a book, my faith would 

seem 
Dead or half - drown'd, or else swam 

heavily 
Against the huge corruptions of the 

Church, 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, ' what am I, 
Cranmer, against whole ages?' was it so. 
Or am I slandering my most inward friend, 
To veil the fault of my most outward foe — 



The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee and not leave thee any 

more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast ! 
( Writes. ) So, so ; this will I say — thus 

will I pray. {^Ptits up the paper. 

Enter Bonner 
Bonner. Good day, old friend ; what, 

you look somewhat worn ; 
And yet it is a day to test your health 
Ev'n at the best : I scarce have spoken 

with you 
Since when ? — your degradation. At 

your trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than you ; 
You would not cap the Pope's commis- 
sioner — 
Your learning, and your stoutness, and 

your heresy, 
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that. 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, 
And make you simple Cranmer once 

again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, and I 
Scraped from your finger-points the holy 

oil ; 
And worse than all, you had to kneel to 

me ; 
Which was not pleasant for you, Master 

Cranmer. 
Now you, that would not recognise the 

Pope, 
And you, that would not own the Real 

Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the stake, 
Which frights you back into the ancient 

faith ; 
And so you have recanted to the Pope. 
How are the mighty fallen, Master 

Cranmer ! 
Cranmer. You have been more fierce 

against the Pope than I ; 
But why fling back the stone he strikes 

me with ? {^Aside. 

O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try faith 

by fire — 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



629 



Pray you, remembering how yourself have 
changed, 

Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, 

To the poor flock — to women and to 
children — 

That when I was archbishop held with me. 
Bowier. Ay — gentle as they call you 
— live or die ! 

Pitiful to this pitiful heresy ? 

I must obey the Queen and Council, man. 

Win thro' this day with honour to your- 
self. 

And I'll say something for you — so — 
good-bye. \_Exit. 

Cranmer. This hard coarse man of old 
hath crouch 'd to me 

Till I myself was half ashamed for him. 

Entej- Thirlby 

Weep not, good Thirlby. 

Thirlby. Oh, my Lord, my Lord ! 

My heart is no such block as Bonner's is : 
Who would not weep? 

Cranmer. Why do you so my-lord me, 
Who am disgraced ? 

Thirlby. On earth ; but saved in 
heaven 
By your recanting. 

Cranmer. Will they burn me, 

Thirlby ? 
Thirlby. Alas, they will ; these burn- 
ings will not help 
The purpose of the faith ; but my poor 

voice 
Against them is a whisper to the roar 
Of a spring-tide. 

Cranmer. And they will surely 

burn me ? 
Thirlby. Ay ; and besides, will have 
you in the church 
Repeat your recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their souls, 
Before your execution. May God help you 
Thro' that hard hour ! 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, 

Thirlby ! 

Well, they shall hear my recantation there. 

{Exit Thirlby. 

Disgraced, dishonour'd ! — not by them, 

indeed. 



By mine own self — by mine own 
hand ! 

thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 

'twas you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan of 

Kent ; 
But then she was a witch. Vou have 

written much, 
But you were never raised to plead for 

Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach'd : he was 

deliver'd 
To the secular arm to burn ; and there 

was Lambert ; 
Who can foresee himself? truly these 

burnings. 
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the 

burners. 
And help the other side. You shall burn 

too. 
Burn first when I am burnt. 
Fire — inch by inch to die in agony ! 

Latimer 
Had a brief end — not Ridley. Hooper 

burn'd 
Three-quarters of an hour. Will my 

faggots 
Be wet as his were ? It is a day of rain. 

1 will not muse upon it. 

My fancy takes the burner's part, and 

makes 
The fire seem even crueller than it is. 
No, I not doubt that God will give me 

strength. 
Albeit I have denied him. 

Enter Soto and Villa Garcia 

Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to St. Mary's, INIaster 

Cranmer. 

Cranmer. And I : lead on ; ye loose 

me from my bonds. {Exeunt. 

SCENE III.— St. Mary's Church 

Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams 
OF TwK^i^ presiding. Lord William 
Howard, Lord Paget, and others. 
Cranmer enters between Soto and 



630 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



Villa Garcia, and the whole Choir 
strike tip ' Nunc Dimitlis.' Cranmer 
is set upon a Scaffold before the people. 

Cole. Behold him — 

\A pause : people in the foreground. 
People. Oh, unhappy sight ! 
First Protestant. See how the tears 

run down his fatherly face. 
Second Protestant. James, didst thou 
ever see a carrion crow 
Stand watching a sick beast before he 
dies ? 
First Protestant. Him perch'd up 
there ? I wish some thunderbolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit 
and all. 
Cole. Behold him, brethren : he hath 
cause to weep ! — 
So have we all : weep with him if ye will, 

Yet 

It is expedient for one man to die. 
Yea, for the people, lest the people die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath 

return'd 
To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors ? 

Protestant viurniurs. Ay, tell us that. 
Cole. Those of the wrong side will 
despise the man, 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear of 

death 
Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyrdom. 
Cranmer. Ay. 

Cole. Ye hear him, and albeit there 
may seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that so repents, yet are there 

causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at this 

time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath been 

a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the realm ; 
And when the King's divorce was sued 

at Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan, 
As if he had been the Holy Father, sat 
And judged it. Did I call him heretic ? 



A huge heresiarch ! never was it known 
That any man so writing, preaching so, 
So poisoning the Church, so long con- 
tinuing, 
Hath found his pardon ; therefore he must 

die, 
For warning and example. 

Other reasons 
There be for this man's ending, which 

our Queen 
And Council at this present deem it not 
Expedient to be known. 

Protestant munmirs. I warrant you. 
Cole. Take therefore, all, example by 

this man, 
For if our Holy Queen not pardon him, 
Much less shall others in like cause 

escape. 
That all of you, the highest as the 

lowest, 
May learn there is no power against the 

Lord. 
There stands a man, once of so high 

degree. 
Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, 

first 
In Council, second person in the realm, 
Friend for so long time of a mighty King : 
And now ye see downfallen and debased 
From councillor to caitiff — fallen so low. 
The leprous flutterings of the byway, scum 
And offal of the city would not change 
Estates with him ; in brief, so miserable. 
There is no hope of better left for him. 
No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 
This is the work of God. He is glorified 
In thy conversion : lo ! thou art reclaim'd ; 
He brings thee home : nor fear but that 

to-day 
Thou shalt receive the penitent thiefs 

award, 
And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise. 
Remember how God made the fierce fire 

seem 
To those three children like a pleasant 

dew. 
Remember, too. 

The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross, 
The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire. 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



631 



Thus, if thou call on God and all the 

saints, 
God will beat down the fury of the flame, 
Or give thee saintly strength to undergo. 
And for thy soul shall masses here be sung 
By every priest in Oxford. Pray for him. 
Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear 

brothers, pray for me ; 
Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul 

for me. 
Cole. And now, lest anyone among 

you doubt 
The man's conversion and remorse of 

heart. 
Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, 

Master Cranmer, 
Fulfil your promise made me, and pro- 
claim 
Your true undoubted faith, that all may 

hear. 
Cranmer. And that I will. O God, 

Father of Heaven ! 
O Son of God, Redeemer of the world ! 

Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them 

both, 
Three persons and one God, have mercy 

on me, 
Most miserable sinner, wretched man. 

1 have offended against heaven and earth 
More grievously than any tongue can tell. 
Then whither should I flee for any help ? 
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven, 
And I can find no refuge upon earth. 
Shall I despair then ? — God forbid ! O 

God, 
For thou art merciful, refusing none 
That come to Thee for succour, unto Thee, 
Therefore, I come ; humble myself to 

Thee ; 
Saying, O Lord God, although my sins 

be great. 
For thy great mercy have mercy ! O 

God the Son, 
Not for slight faults alone, when thou 

becamest 
Man in the Flesh, was the great myster}- 

wrought ; 
O God the Father, not for little sins 
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human 

death ; 



But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd, 
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable. 
Unpardonable, — sin against the light, 
The truth of God, which I had proven 

and known. 
Thy mercy must be greater than all sin. 
Forgive me. Father, for no merit of mine, 
But that Thy name by man be glorified, 
And Thy most blessed Son's, who died 

for man. 
Good people, every man at time of 

death 
Would fain set forth some saying that 

may live 
After his death and better humankind ; 
Yox death gives life's last word a power 

to hve. 
And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain 
After the vanish'd voice, and speak to 

men. 
God grant me grace to glorify my God ! 
And first I say it is a grievous case. 
Many so dote upon this bubble world. 
Whose colours in a moment break and 

fly, 

They care for nothing else. What saith 

St. John :— 
' Love of this world is hatred against 

God.' 
Again, I pray you all that, next to God, 
You do unmurmuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not for 

dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern you. 
Thirdly, I pray you all to live together 
Like brethren ; yet what hatred Christian 

men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as 

brethren, 
But mortal foes ! But do you good to all 
As much as in you lieth. Plurt no man 

more 
Than you would harm your loving natural 

brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. I/any do, 
All)eit he think himself at home witli 

God, 
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds 

away. 



632 



QUEEN MARY 



Protestant inurnnirs. What sort of 

brothers then be those that lust 
To burn each other ? 

Williams. Peace among you, there ! 
Craniner. Fourthly, to those that own 

exceeding wealth, 
Remember that sore saying spoken once 
By Him that was the truth, * How hard 

it is 
For the rich man to enter into Heaven ' ; 
Let all rich men remember that hard word. 
I have not time for more : if ever, now 
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing now 
The poor so many, and all food so dear. 
Long have I lain in prison, yet have 

heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to the 

poor. 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the 

poor. 
And now, and forasmuch as I have 

come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all my past, and all my life to be, 
Either to live with Christ in Heaven with 

joy. 

Or to be still in pain with devils in hell ; 
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find 

{^Pointing upwards. 
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me, 
{^Pointing downwards. 
I shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all colour. 

Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 
Cranmer. I do believe in God, Father 
of all ; 
In every article of the Catholic faith, 
And every syllable taught us by our Lord, 
His prophets, and apostles, in the Testa- 
ments, 
Both Old and New. 

Cole. Be plainer. Master Cranmer. 
Crayimer. And now I come to the 
great cause that weighs 
Upon my conscience more than anything 
Or said or done in all my life by me ; 
For there be writings I have set abroad 
Against the truth I knew within my heart, 
Written for fear of death, to save my life, 
If that might be ; the papers by my hand 



Sign'd since my degradation — by this hand 

[Holding out his right hand. 

Written and sign'd — I here renounce them 

all; 
And, since my hand offended, having 

written 
Against my heart, my hand shall first be 

burnt. 
So I may come to the fire. 

[^Dead silence. 
Protestant imirmnrs. 
First Protestant. I knew it would be 

so. 
Second Protestant, Our prayers are 

heard ! 
Third Protestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic murmurs. Out upon him ! 
out upon him ! 
Liar ! dissembler ! traitor ! to the fire ! 
Williams {raising his voice). You 
know that you recanted all you 
said 
Touching the sacrament in that same 

book 
You wrote against my Lord of Winches- 
ter ; 
Dissemble not ; play the plain Christian 
man. 
Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, 
I have been a man loved plainness all my 

life; 
I did dissemble, but the hour has come 
For utter truth and plainness ; wherefore, 

I say, 
I hold by all I wrote within that book. 
Moreover, 

As for the Pope I count him Antichrist, 

With all his devil's doctrines ; and refuse. 

Reject him, and abhor him. I have said. 

\Cries on all sides, ' Pull him down ! 

Away with him ! ' 

Cole. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth ! 

Hale him away ! 
Williams. Harm him not, harm him 
not ! have him to the fire ! 
[Cranmer goes cut bcixveen Two 
PViars, smiling; hands are reached 
to him froi7i the croivd. LORD 
William Howard and Lord 
Paget are left alone in the church. 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



633 



Paget. The nave and aisles all empty 
as a fool's jest ! 
No, here's Lord William Hov/ard. 

What, my Lord, 
You have not gone to see the burning ? 

Howard. Fie ! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a show. 
And watch a good man burn. Never 

again. 
I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley. 
Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not, 
For the pure honour of our common 

nature. 
Hear what I might — another recantation 
Of Cranmer at the stake. 

Paget. You'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd 

upright ; 
His eye was- like a soldier's, whom the 

general 
He looks to and he leans on as his God, 
Hath rated for some backwardness and 

bidd'n him 
Charge one against a thousand, and the 

man 
Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes and 
dies. 
Howard. Yet that he might not after 
all those papers 
Of recantation yield again, who knows? 
Paget. Papers of recantation ! Think 
you then 
That Cranmer read all papers that he 

sign'd ? 
Or sign'd all those they tell us that he 

sign'd ? 
Nay, I trow not : and you shall see, my 

Lord, 
That howsoever hero -like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another 
Will in some lying fashion misreport 
His ending to the glory of their church. 
And you saw Latimer and Ridley die ? 
Latimer was eighty, was he not ? his best 
Of life was over then. 

Howard. His eighty years 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in his 

frieze ; 
But after they had stript him to his shroud, 
He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one, 



And gather'd with his hands the starting 

flame. 
And wash'd his hands and all his face 

therein. 
Until the powder suddenly blew him 

dead. 
Ridley was longer burning ; but he died 
As manfully and boldly, and, 'fore God, 
I know them heretics, but right English 

ones. 
If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with 

Spain, 
Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer- 

sailors 
Will teach her something. 

Paget. Your mild Legate Pole 

VN'^ill tell you that the devil helpt them 
thro' it. 
\A murmur of the Crowd in the 
distance. 
Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl 
and bay him ! 
Howard. Might it not be the other 
side rejoicing 
In his brave end ? 

Paget. They are too crush'd, too 

broken, 
They can but weep in silence. 

Howard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have brought it in large measure on 

themselves. 
Have I not heard them mock the blessed 

Host 
In songs so lewd, the beast might roar 

his claim 
To being in God's image, more than 

they? 
Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the 

groom, 
Gardener, and huntsman, in the parson's 

place. 
The parson from his own spire swung out 

dead. 
And Ignorance crying in the streets, and 

all men 
Regarding her ? I say they have drawn 

the fire 
On their own heads : yet, Paget, I do hold 
The Catholic, if behave the greater right, 
Hath been the crueller. 



634 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 

nee. fl 
Paget !,a 
sort, W 



Paget. Action and re-action, 

The miserable see-saw of our child-world. 
Make us despise it at odd hours, my 

Lord, 
Heaven help that this re-action not re-act 
Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth, 
So that she come to rule us. 

Hoivard. The world's mad. 

Paget. My Lord, the world is like a 

drunken man, 
Who cannot move straight to his end — 

but reels 
Now to the right, then as far to the left, 
Push'd by the crowd beside — and under- 
foot 
An earthquake ; for since Henry for a 

doubt — 
Which a young lust had clapt upon the 

back, 
Crying, ' Forward ! ' — set our old church 

rocking, men 
Have hardly known what to believe, or 

whether 
They should believe in anything ; the 

currents 
So shift and change, they see not how 

they are borne. 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a 

beast ; 
Verily a lion if you will — the world 
A most obedient beast and fool — myself 
Half beast and fool as appertaining to it ; 
Altho' your Lordship hath as little of 

each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay, 
As may be consonant with mortality. 

Howard. We talk and Cranmer suffers. 
The kindliest man I ever knew ; see, see, 
I speak of him in the past. Unhappy 

land ! 
Hard-natured Queen, half- Spanish in 

herself. 
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of 

Spain — 
Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a child, 
Plath, like a brief and bitter winter's day, 
Gone narrowing down and darkening to 

a close. 
There will be more conspiracies, I fear. 



Paget. Ay, ay, beware of France. 
Hozvard, O Paget, Paget !,| 

I have seen heretics of the poorer sort 
Expectant of the rack from day to day. 
To whom the fire were welcome, lying 

chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming 

sewers, 
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon 

the tongue. 
And putrid water, every drop a worm. 
Until they died of rotted limbs ; and then 
Cast on the dunghill naked, and become 
Hideously alive again from head to heel. 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel 

vomit 
With hate and horror. 

Paget. Nay, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Howard. Fancy -sick; these things 

are done. 
Done right against the promise of this 

Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my 

Lord! 
Hist ! there be two old gossips — gospel- 
lers, 
I take it ; stand behind the pillar here ; 
I warrant you they talk about the burning. 

Enter Two Old Women. Joan, and 
after her TiB 
Joan. Why, it be Tib ! 
Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and 
couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind 
and the wet ! What a day, what a day ! 
nigh upo' judgement daay loike. Pwoaps 
be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt 
set i' the Lord's cheer o' that daay. 

Joan. I must set down myself, Tib ; 
it be a var waay vor my owld legs up 
vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that 
bad howiver be I to win to the burnin'. 

Tib. I should saay 'twurower by now. 
I'd ha' been here avore, but Dumble wur 
blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the 
best milcher in Islip. 
Joan. Our Daisy's as good 'z her. 
Tib. Noa, Joan. 



QUEEN MARY 



63s 



Joan. Our Daisy's butter's as good 'z 
hern. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 
Joa7i. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, 
Tib ; ez thou hast wi' thy owld man. 

Tib. Ay, Joan, and my owld man 
wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hard 
eggs for a good pleace at the burnin' ; 
and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'ud ha' been 
a-harrowin' o' white peasen i' the outfield 
— and barrin' the wind, Dumble wur 
blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced 
to stick her, but we fetched her round at 
last. Thank the Lord therevore. Dum- 
ble's the best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Thou's thy way wi' man and 
beast, Tib. I wonder at tha, it beats 
me ! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and 
vires be bad things ; tell 'ee now, I heerd 
summat as summun towld summun o' 
owld Bishop Gardiner's end ; there wur 
an owld lord a-cum to dine wi' un, and 
a wur so owld a couldn't bide vor his 
dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver, 
vor * I wunt dine,' says my Lord Bishop, 
says he, ' not till I hears ez Latimer and 
Ridley be a-vire ' ; and so they bided on 
and on till vour o' the clock, till his man 
cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez the 
vire has tuk holt. ' Now,' says the 
Bishop, says he, ' we'll gwo to dinner ' ; 
and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a 
will, God bless un ! but Gardiner wur 
struck down like by the hand o' God 
avore a could taste a mossel, and a set 
un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un cum 
a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as black as a 
rat. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. Ay, Joan ; and Queen Mary 
gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to get 
her baaby born ; but all her burnin's 'ill 
never burn out the hypocrisy that makes 
the water in her. There's nought but 
the vire of God's hell ez can burn out 
that, 

Joan. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 



Tib. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and 
a-makin' o' volk madder and madder ; 
but tek thou my word vor't, Joan, — and 
I bean't wrong not twice i' ten year — the 
burnin' o' the owld archbishop '11 burn 
the Pwoap out o' this 'ere land vor iver 
and iver. 

Howard. Out of the church, you 

brace of cursed crones, 
Or I will have you duck'd ! ( Women 

hurry out.) Said I not right ? 
For how should reverend prelate or 

throned prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malignity ? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd ! 
Paget. Pooh, pooh, my Lord ! poor 

garrulous country-wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side 

with you ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the lees. 
Howard. I think that in some sort 

we may. But see, 

Enter Peters 
Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic, 
Who follow'd with the crowd to Cran- 

mer's fire. 
One that would neither misreport nor lie, 
Not to gain paradise : no, nor if the Pope, 
Charged him to do it — he is white as 

death. 
Peters, how pale you look ! you bring 

the smoke 
Of Cranmer's burning with you. 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt 
me round. 
Howard. Peters, you know me 
Catholic, but English. 
Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave 
All else untold. 

Peters. My Lord, he died most 

bravely. 
Howard. Then tell me all. 
Paget. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. 

Peters. You saw him how he past 
among the crowd ; 
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars 
Still plied him with entreaty and reproach : 
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm 



636 



QUEEN MARY 



Steers, ever looking to the happy haven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved to 

his death ; 
And I could see that many silent hands 
Came from the crowd and met his own ; 

and thus, 
When we had come where Ridley burnt 

with Latimer, 
He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose 

mind 
Is all made up, in haste put off the rags 
They had mock'd his misery with, and all 

in white, 
His long white beard, which he had never 

shaven 
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to 

the chain. 
Wherewith they bound him to the stake, 

he stood 
More like an ancient father of the Church, 
Than heretic of these times ; and still 

the friars 
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his 

head, 
Or answer'd them in smiling negatives ; 
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden 

cry : — 
' Make short ! make short ! ' and so they 

lit the wood. 
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to 

heaven, 
And thrust his right into the bitter flame ; 
And crying, in his deep voice, more than 

once, 
* This hath offended — this unworthy 

hand ! ' 
So held it till it all was burn'd, before 
The flame had reach'd his body ; I stood 

near — 
Mark'd him — he never uttered moan of 

pain : 
He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a 

statue, 
Unmoving in the greatness of the flame. 
Gave up the ghost ; and so past martyr- 
like— 
Martyr I may not call him — past — but 
whither ? 
Paget. To purgatory, man, to purga- 
tory. 



Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied 

purgatory. 
Paget. Why then to heaven, and God 

ha' mercy on him. 
Harvard. Paget, despite his fearful 

heresies, 
I loved the man, and needs must moan 

for him ; 

Cranmer ! 

Paget. But your moan is useless now : 
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools. 

\Exeunt. 

ACT V 

SCENE I.— London. PIall in the 
Palace 

Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath 

Heath. Madam, 

1 do assure you, that it must be look'd 

to: 
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the 

French fleet 
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be 

look'd to. 
If war should fall between yourself and 

France ; 
Or you will lose your Calais. 

Mary. It shall be look'd to ; 

I wish you a good morning, good Sir 

Nicholas : 
Here is the King. \Exit Heath. 

Enter Philip 

Philip. Sir Nicholas tells you true, 

And you must look to Calais when I go. 

Mary. Go? must you go, indeed — 

again — so soon ? 

Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swallow. 
That might live always in the sun's warm 

heart, 
Stays longer here in our poor north than 

you : — 
Knows where he nested — ever comes 
again. 
Philip. And, Madam, so shall I. 



QUEEN MARY 



637 



Mary. 0, will you ? will you ? 


Is all but smoke — a star beside the 


I am faint with fear that you will come 


moon 


no more. 


Is all but lost ; your people will not crown 


Philip. Ay, ay ; but many voices call 


me — 


me hence. 


Vour people are as cheerless as your 


Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy ru- 


clime ; 


mours — nay, 


Hate me and mine : witness the brawls, 


I say not, I believe. What voices call 


the gibbets. 


you 


Here swings a Spaniard — there an Eng- 


Dearer than mine that should be dearest 


hshman ; 


to you ? 


The peoples are unlike as their com- 


Alas, my Lord ! what voices and how 


plexion ; 


many ? 


Yet will I be your swallow and re- 


Philip. The voices of Castile and 


turn — 


A r agon. 


But now I cannot bide. 


Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan, — 


Mary. Not to help me ? 


The voices of Franche-Comte, and the 


They hate me also for my love to you. 


Netherlands, 


My Philip ; and these judgments on the 


The voices of Peru and Mexico, 


land— 


Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 


Harvestless autumns, horrible agues. 


And all the fair spice - islands of the 


plague — 


East. 


Philip. The blood and sweat of 


JSIary {admiringly). You are the 


heretics at the stake 


mightiest monarch upon earth, 


Is God's best dew upon the barren field. 


I but a little Queen : and, so indeed. 


Burn more ! 


Need you the more. 


Mary. I will, I will ; and you will 


Philip. A little Queen ! but when 


stay? 


I came towed your majesty, Lord Howard, 


Philip. Have I not said ? Madam, I 


Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the 


came to sue 


seas 


Your Council and yourself to declare 


Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag 


war. 


To yours of England. 


Mary. Sir, there are many English in 


Mary. Howard is all English ! 


your ranks 


There is no king, not were he ten times 


To help your battle. 


king, 


Philip. So far, good. I say 


Ten times our husband, but must lower 


I came to sue your Council and your- 


his flag 


self 


To that of England in the seas of 


To declare war against the King of 


England. 


France. 


Philip. Is that your answer ? 


Mary. Not to see me ? 


Mary. Being Queen of England, 


Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 


I have none other. 


Unalterably and pesteringly fond ! {^Aside. 


Philip. So. 


But, soon or late you must have war with 


Mary. But wherefore not 


France ; 


Helm the huge vessel of your state, my 


King Henry warms your traitors at his 


liege, 


hearth. 


Here by the side of her who loves you 


Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford 


most ? 


there. 


Philip. No, Madam, no ! a candle in 


Courtenay, belike — 


the sun 


Mary. A fool and featherhead ! 



638 



QUEEN MARY 



Philip. Ay, but they use his name. 

In brief, this Henry 
Stirs up your land against you to the 

intent 
That you may lose your English heritage. 
And then, your Scottish namesake marry- 
ing 
The Dauphin, he would weld France, 

England, Scotland, 
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me. 
Mary. And yet the Pope is now 

coUeagued with France ; 
You make your wars upon him down in 

Italy :— 
Philip, can that be well ? 

Philip. Content you, Madam ; 

You must abide my judgment, and my 

father's. 
Who deems it a most just and holy war. 
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of 

Naples : 
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, 

Saracens. 
The Pope has pushed his horns beyond 

his mitre — 
Beyond his province. Now, 
Duke Alva will but touch him on the 

horns. 
And he withdraws ; and of his holy 

head — 
P'or Alva is true son of the true 

church — 
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help 

me here ? 
Mary. Alas ! the Council will not 

hear of war. 
They say your wars are not the wars of 

England. 
They will not lay more taxes on a land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched ; and you 

know 
The crown is poor. We have given the 

church -lands back : 
The nobles would not ; nay, they clapt 

their hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd ; and 

therefore God 
Is hard upon the people. What's to be 

done ? 
Sir. I will move them in your cause again, 



And we will raise us loans and subsidies 
Among the merchants ; and Sir Thomas 

Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the 
Jews. 
Philip. Madam, my thanks. 
Mary. And you will stay your 

going ? 
Philip. And further to discourage and 
lay lame 
The plots of France, altho' you love her 

not, 
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. 
She stands between you and the Queen 
of Scots. 
Majy. The Queen of Scots at least is 

Catholic. 
Philip. Ay, Madam, Catholic ; but 
I will not have 
The King of France the King of England 
too. 
Mary. But she's a heretic, and, when 
I am gone. 
Brings the new learning back. 

Philip. It must be done. 

You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. 
Mary. Then it is done ; but you will 
stay your going 
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose ? 
Philip. No ! 

Mary. What, not one day ? 
Philip. You beat upon the rock. 

Mary. And I am broken there. 
Philip. Is this a place 

To wail in, Madam ? what ! a public hall. 
Go in, I pray you. 

Alary. Do not seem so changed. 

Say go ; but only say it lovingly. 

Philip. You do mistake. I am not 
one to change. 
I never loved you more. 

Mary. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Philip. Ay. \Exit Mary. 

Enter Count de Feria 
Feria {aside). The Queen in tears ! 
Philip. Feria ! 

Hast thou not mark'd — come closer to 

mine ear — 



QUEEN MARY 



639 



How doubly aged this Queen of ours hatli 

grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a 
child ? 
Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd 

it, so have I. 
Philip. Hast thou not likewise mark'd 
Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal — like a Queen, in- 
deed ? 
Feria. Allow me the same answer as 
before — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so 
have I. 
Philip. Good, now ; methinks my 
Queen is like enough 
To leave me by and by. 

Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. 
Elizabeth — 
To Philibert of Savoy, as you know, 
We meant to wed her ; but I am not 

sure 
She will not serve me better — so my 

Queen 
Would leave me — as — my wife. 

Fe7'ia. Sire, even so. 

Philip. She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy. 
Feria. No, sire. 

Philip. I have to pray you, some 

odd time. 
To sound the Princess carelessly on this ; 
Not as from me, but as your phantasy ; 
And tell me how she takes it. 

Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that 
Philibert 
Shall be the man ; and I shall urge his 

suit 
Upon the Queen, because I am not 

certain : 
You understand, Feria. 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret in 
this matter, 
You understand me there, too ? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and supple, 
like a Frenchman. 



She is none of those who loathe the 
honeycomb. \^Exit Feria, 

E7iter Renard 

Renard. My liege, I bring you goodly 

tidings, 
Philip. Well ? 

Renard. There will be war with 

France, at last, my liege ; 
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass. 
Sailing from Prance, with thirty English- 
men, 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of 

York; 
Proclaims himself protector, and affirms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to reign 
By marriage with an alien — other things 
As idle ; a weak Wyatt ! Little doubt 
This buzz will soon be silenced ; but the 

Council 
(I have talk'd with some already) are for 

war. 
This is the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in 

France ; 
They show their teeth upon it ; and your 

Grace, 
So you will take advice of mine, should 

stay 
Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the 

event. 
Philip. Good! Renard, I will stay then. 
Renard. Also, sire, 

Might I not say — to please your wife, the 

Queen ? 
Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to put 

it so. \^Exetmt. 



SCENE II.— A Room in the 
Palace 

Mary, sitting : a rose in her hand. Lady 
Clarence. Alice /// the background. 

Mary. Look ! I have play'd with this 
poor rose so long 
I have broken off the head. 

Lady Clarence. Your Grace hath been 
More merciful to many a rebel head 
That should have fallen, and may rise 
again. 



640 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Mary. There were not many hang'd 

for Wyatt's rising. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, not two hundred, 
Mary. I could weep for them 

And her, and mine own self and all the 

world. 
Lady Clarence. For her ? for whom, 

your Grace ? 

Enter UsHER 
Usher. The Cardinal. 

^w/^r Cardinal Pole. {Wkk^ rises.) 

Mary. Reginald Pole, what news hath 

plagued thy heart ? 
What makes thy favour like the bloodless 

head 
Fall'n on the block, and held up by the 

hair? 
Philip ?— 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 

As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as ever. 
Is Calais taken ? 

Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 

A sharper harm to England and to Rome, 
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 
Was ever just, and mild, and father-like ; 
But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the 

P'ourth, 
Not only reft me of that legateship 
Which Julius gave me, and the legate- 
ship 
Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but worse — 
And yet I must obey the Holy Father, 
And so must you, good cousin ; — worse 

than all, 
A passing bell toU'd in a dying ear — 
He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy. 
Before his Inquisition. 

Maiy. I knew it, cousin, 

But held from you all papers sent by 

Rome, 
That you might rest among us, till the 

Pope, 
To compass which I wrote myself to 

Rome, 
Reversed his doom, and that you might 

not seem 
To disobey his Holiness. 



Pole. He hates Philip ; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the 

Spaniard ; 
He cannot dream that / advised the war ; 
He strikes thro' me at Philip and your- 
self 
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me 

too ; 
So brands me in the stare of Christendom 
A heretic ! 
Now, even now, when bow'd before my 

time. 
The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out ; 
When I should guide the Church in peace 

at home. 
After my twenty years of banishment. 
And all my lifelong labour to uphold 
The primacy — a heretic. Long ago, 
When I was ruler in the patrimony, 
I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 
And I and learned friends among our- 
selves 
Would freely canvass certain Lutheran - 

isms. 
What then, he knew I was no Lutheran. 
A heretic ! 
Pie drew this shaft against me to the 

head, 
Wlien it was thought I might be chosen 

Pope, 
But then withdrew it. In full consistor}-. 
When I was made Archbishop, he 

approved me. 
And how should he have sent me Legate 

hither, 
Deeming me heretic ? and what heresy 

since ? 
But he was evermore mine enemy, 
And hates the Spaniard — fiery-choleric, 
A drinker of black, strong, volcanic 

wines. 
That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic ? 
Your Highness knows that in pursuing 

heresy 
I have gone beyond your late Lord 

Chancellor, — 
He cried Enough ! enough ! before his 

death. — 
Gone beyond him and mine own natural 

man 



QUEEN MARY 



641 



(It was God's cause) ; so far they call me 

now, 
The scourge and butcher of their English 

church. 
Majy. Have courage, your reward is 

Heaven itself. 
Pole. They groan amen ; they swarm 

into the fire 
Like flies — for what ? no dogma. They 

know nothing ; 
They burn for nothing. 

Mary. You have done your best. 

Pole. Have done my best, and as a 

faithful son, 
That all day long hath wrought his father's 

work. 
When back he comes at evening hath the 

door 
Shut on him by the father whom he 

loved. 
His early follies cast into his teeth. 
And the poor son turn'd out into the 

street 
To sleep, to die — I shall die of it, 

cousin. 
Mary. I pray you be not so dis- 
consolate ; 
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope. 
Poor cousin ! 
Have not I been the fast friend of your 

life 
Since mine began, and it was thought we 

two 
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto 

each other 
As man and wife ? 

Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember 

How I would dandle you upon my 

knee 
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing 

once 
With your huge father ; he look'd the 

Great Harry, 
You but his cockboat ; prettily you 

did it, 
And innocently. No — we were not made 
One flesh in happiness, no happiness 

here ; 
But now we are made one flesh in 

misery ; 
T 



Our bridemaids are not lovely — Dis- 
appointment, 
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 
Labour-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at heart 

myself. 
Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead 

men's clay. 
Dug from the grave that yawns for us 

beyond ; 
And there is one Death stands behind the 

Groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind the 

Bride— 
Mary. Have you been looking at the 

' Dance of Death ' ? 
Pole. No ; but these libellous papers 

which I found 
Strewn in your palace. Look you here — 

the Pope 
Pointing at me with ' Pole, the heretic. 
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn 

thyself. 
Or I will burn thee' ; and this other ; 

see ! — 
* We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal 

Pole.' 
This last — I dare not read it her. [Aside. 
Mary. Away ! 

Why do you bring me these ? 
I thought you knew me better. I never 

read, 
I tear them ; they come back upon my 

dreams. 
The hands that write them should be 

burnt clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter 

them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, 

or lie 
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd 

rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me 

these ? 
Do you mean to drive me mad ? 

Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels trouble you. Your 

pardon, 

2 T 



642 



QUEEN MARY 



Sweet cousin, and farewell ! ' O bubble 

world, 
Whose colours in a moment break and 

fly!' 
Why, who said that ? I know not — 
true enough ! 
\^Picts up the papers, all but the last, 
which falls. Exit Pole. 
Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a 
mocking one. 
And heard these two, there might be 
sport for him. - {^Aside. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate me ; even 
while I speak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening 
In some dark closet, some long gallery, 

drawn. 
And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, Madam, there 
be loyal papers too, 
And I have often found them. 

Mary. Find me one ! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam ; but Sir 
Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, 
Would see your Highness. 

Alaiy. Wherefore should I see him ? 
Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he 
may bring you news from Philip. 
Mary. So, Clarence. 
Lady Clarence. Let me first put 

up your hair ; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

Mary. And the gray dawn 

Of an old age that never will be mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what 

matters ? 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 

Etiter Sir Nicholas Heath 

Heath. I bring your Majesty such 
grievous news 
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is 
taken. 

Mary. What traitor spoke ? Here, 
let my cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran. 

Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I 
will retire. 

Lady Clarence. Madam, your Chan- 
cellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. 



Mary. Sir Nicholas ! I am stunn'd 

— Nicholas Heath ? 
Methought some traitor smote me on the 

head. 
What said you, my good Lord, that our 

brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and driven 

back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches ? 

Heath. Alas ! no. 

That gateway to the mainland over which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred 

years 
Is France again, 

Mary. So ; but it is not lost — 

Not yet. Send out : let England as ot 

old 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into 
The prey they are rending from her — ay, 

and rend 
The renders too. Send out, send out, 

and make 
Musters in all the counties ; gather all 
From sixteen years to sixty ; collect the 

fleet; 
Let every craft that carries sail and gun 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not 

taken yet ? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. 
Majy. There yet is hope. 

Heath. Ah, Madam, but your people 

are so cold ; 
I do much fear that England will not 

care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left among 

us. 
Mary. Send out ; I am too weak to 

stir abroad : 
Tell my mind to the Council — to the 

Parliament : 
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold 

thyself 
To babble of their coldness. O would I 

were 
My father for an hour ! Away now — 

Quick ! lExit Heath. 

I hoped I had served God with all my 

might ! 
It seems I have not. Ah ! much heresy 
Shelter'd in Calais. Saints, I have rebuilt 



QUEEN MARY 



643 



Your shrines, set up your broken images ; 
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not 
That my brief reign in England be de- 
famed 
Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter 
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. 

Philip, 
We have made war upon the Holy 

Father 
All for your sake : what good could come 

of that ? 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, not 

against the Holy Father ; 
You did but help King Philip's war with 

France, 
Your troops were never down in Italy. 
Mary. I am a byword. Heretic and 

rebel 
Point at me and make merry. Philip 

gone ! 
And Calais gone ! Time that I were 

gone too ! 
Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid gutter 

had a voice 
And cried I was not clean, what should 

I care ? 
Or you, for heretic cries ? And I believe. 
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, 
Your England is as loyal as myself. 
Alary {seeing the paper dropt by Pole). 

There ! there ! another paper ! 

Said you not 
Many of these were loyal ? Shall I try 
If this be one of such ? 

Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 
God pardon me ! I have never yet 

found one. \^Aside. 

Mary {reads). ' Your people hate you 

as your husband hates you.' 
Clarence, Clarence, what have I done ? 

what sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon ? Mother 

of God, 
Thou knowest never woman meant so 

well, 
And fared so ill in this disastrous world. 
My people hate me and desire my death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. 
Mary. My husband hates me, and 

desires my death. 



Lady Clarence, No, Madam ; these 

are libels. 
Mary. I hate myself, and I desire my 

death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live your 
Majesty ! Shall Alice sing you 
One of her pleasant songs ? Alice, my 

child, 
Bring us your lute (Alice goes). They 

say the gloom of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 

Mary. Too young ! 

And never knew a Philip. 

Re-enter Alice 

Give vie the lute. 
He hates me ! 

{^She sings) 

Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing ! 

Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in 
loathing : 

Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say the 
world is nothing — 

Low, lute, low ! 

Love will hover round the flowers when they first 
awaken ; 

Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be over- 
taken ; 

Low, my lute ! oh low, my lute ! we fade and 
are forsaken — 

Low, dear lute, low ! 

Take it away ! not low enough for me ! 
Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. 
Mary. How dare you say it ? 

Even for that he hates me. A low 

voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can 

hear ! 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea ! 
A low voice from the dust and from the 
grave 
{Sitting on the ground). There, am I 

low enough now ? 
Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and 
ghastly looks her Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to 

her chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside my 
father's, 



644 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



And this was open'd, and the dead were 

found 
Sitting, and in this fashion ; she looks a 

corpse. 

Enter Lady Magdalen Dacres 

Lady Magdalen. Madam, the Count 
de Feria waits without. 
In hopes to see your Highness. 

Lady Clarence [pointingto Mary). Wait 
he must — 
Her trance again. She neither sees nor 

hears, 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen, Unhappiest 

Of Queens and wives and women ! 

Alice {in the foregj'ound with Lady 
Magdalen). And all along 

Of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud ! Our 
Clarence there 
Sees ever such an aureole round the 

Queen, 
It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace, 
Who stands the nearest to her. 

Alice. Ay, this Philip ; 

I used to love the Queen with all my 

heart — 
God help me, but methinks I love her less 
For such a dotage upon such a man. 
I would I were as tall and strong as you. 
Lady Magdalen. I seem half-shamed 

at times to be so tall. 
Alice. You are the stateliest deer in 
all the herd — 
Beyond his aim — but I am small and 

scandalous. 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Why ? 

I never heard him utter worse of you 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all women's 
Low as his own ? 

Lady Magdalen. There you strike in 
the nail. 
This coarseness is a want of phantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman 

low ; 
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 



Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as 

well as dull. 
How dared he ? 

Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft 

are bold. 
Poor lads, they see not what the general 

sees, 
A risk of utter ruin. I am not 
Beyond his aim, or was not. 

Alice. Who ? Not you ? 

Tell, tell me ; save my credit with myself 

Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it 

to a bird in the eaves. 
Would not for all the stars and maiden 

moon 
Our drooping Queen should know ! In 

Hampton Court 
My window look'd upon the corridor ; 
And I was robing ; — this poor throat of 

mine. 
Barer than I should wish a man to see 

it, — 
When he we speak of drove the window 

back. 
And, like a thief, push'd in his royal 

hand ; 
But by God's providence a good stout staff 
Lay near me ; and you know me strong 

of arm ; 
I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 
For a day or two, tho', give the Devil 

his due, 
I never found he bore me any spite. 
Alice. I would she could have wedded 

that poor youth, 
My Lord of Devon — light enough, God 

knows. 
And mixt with Wyatt's rising — and the 

boy 
Not out of him — but neither cold, coarse, 

cruel, 
And more than all — no Spaniard. 

Lady Clarence. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls ! what are you whis- 
pering here ? 
Alice. Probing an old state-secret — 

how it chanced 
That this young Earl was sent on foreign 

travel, 
Not lost his head. 



QUEEN MARY 



645 



Lady Clarence. There was no proof 

against him. 
Alice. Nay, Madam ; did not Gardiner 
intercept 
A letter which the Count de Noailles 

wrote 
To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full proof 
Of Courtenay's treason ? What became 
of that ? 
Lady Clarence. Some say that Gar- 
diner, out of love for him. 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost 
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's 

house in Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. Ay, and with him who died 
Alone in Italy. 

Lady Clai-ence. Much changed, I hear, 
Had put off levity and put graveness on. 
The foreign courts report him in his 

manner 
Noble as his young person and old shield. 
It might be so — but all is over now ; 
He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice, 
And died in Padua. 

Mary {looking up suddenly). Died in 

the true faith ? 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. 

Mary. Happier he than I. 

Lady Magdalen. It seems her Highness 

hath awaken'd. Think you 

That I might dare to tell her that the 

Count 

Mary. I will see no man hence for 
evermore, 
Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de 

Feria, my dear lady. 
Mary. What Count ? 

Lady Magdalen. The Count de Feria, 
from his Majesty 
King Philip. 

Mary. Philip ! quick ! loop up my 
hair ! 
Throw cushions on that seat, and make 

it throne-like. 
Arrange my dress — the gorgeous Indian 

shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy 
days ! — 



That covers all. So — am I somewhat 

Queenlike, 
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon 
earth ? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace 

would bide a moment yet. 
Alary. No, no, he brings a letter. 
I may die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at once. 

Enter CouNT DE Feria {kneels) 
Feria. I trust your Grace is well. 

{Aside) How her hand burns ! 
Mary. I am not well, but it will 
better me. 
Sir Count, to read the letter which you 
bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Alary. How ! no letter ? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with 

strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no affair 

of his. 
Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends 
his veriest love, 
And says, he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed ? 

You, sir, do you remember -whixXyou said 
When last you came to England ? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations ; it was hoped 
Your Highness was once more in happy 

state 
To give him an heir male. 

Mary. Sir, you said more ; 

You said he would come quickly. I had 

horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and 

night ; 
On all the road from Harwich, night and 

day; 
But the child came not, and the husband 

came not ; 
And yet he will come quickly. . . Thou 

hast learnt 
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no 

need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 
And tell him that I know he comes no more. 



646 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Tell him at last I know his love is 

dead, 
And that I am in state to bring forth 

death — 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me ! 

Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. 
But shall I take some message from your 
Grace ? 
Majy. Tell her to come and close my 
dying eyes, 
And wear my crown, and dance upon my 
grave. 
Feria. Then I may say your Grace 
will see your sister ? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and 

sunshine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our warm 

Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him away ! 

I sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria {kneels^ and kisses her hand). I 

wish her Highness better. {Aside) 

How her hand burns ! \Exeutit. 



SCENE HL— A House near 
London 

Elizabeth, Steward of the House- 
hold, Attendants 

Elizabeth. There's half an angel 
wrong'd in your account ; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it 
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er 
again. 
Steward. I were whole devil if I 
wrong'd you. Madam. 

l^Exit Steward. 
Attendant. The Count de Feria, from 

the King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah ! — let him enter. Nay, 
you need not go : 

\To her Ladies. 
Remain within the chamber, but apart. 
We'll have no private conference. Wel- 
come to Eng-land ! 



Enter Feria 

Feria. Fair island star ! 

Elizabeth. I shine ! What else, 

Sir Count ? 
Feria. As far as France, and into 
Philip's heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly 

served, 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 
I am well-served, and am in everything 
Most loyal and most grateful to the 
Queen. 
Feria. You should be grateful to my 
master, too. 
He spoke of this ; and unto him you owe 
That Mary hath acknowledged you her 
heir. 
Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; 
but to the people, 
Who know my right, and love me, as I 

love 
The people ! whom God aid ! 

Feria. You will be Queen, 

And, were I Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wherefore pause you — 

what ? 
Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine 
own self, not him ; 
Your royal sister cannot last ; your hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a delicate 

one ! 
Our Spanish ladies have none such — and 

there. 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer 

gold- 
Like sun - gilt breathings on a frosty 

dawn — 
That hovers round your shoulder — 

Elizabeth. Is it so fine ? 

Troth, some have said so. 

Feria. — would be deemed a miracle. 
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold hair 
and golden beard ; 
There must be ladies many with hair like 
mine. 
Feria. Some few of Gothic blood 
have golden hair. 
But none like yours. 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



647 



Elizabeth. I am happy you approve it. 
Feria. But as to Philip and your 

Grace — consider, — 
If such a one as you should match with 

Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and England 

join'd, 
Should make the mightiest empire earth 

has known. 
Spain would be England on her seas, and 

England 
Mistress of the Indies. 

Elizabeth. It may chance, that 

England 
Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet, 
Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible ; 

Except you put Spain down. 
Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's 

dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps ; but we have 

seamen. Count de Feria, 
I take it that the King hath spoken to you ; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodly match ? 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but 

twelve years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I 

will muse upon it ; 
He is my good friend, and I would keep 

him so ; 
But — he would have me Catholic of Rome, 
And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till 

now 
My sister's marriage, and my father's 

marriages, 
Make me full fain to live and die a maid. 
But I am much beholden to your King. 
Have you aught else to tell me ? 

Feria. Nothing, Madam, 

Save that methought I gather'd from the 

Queen 
That she would see your Grace before she 

— died. 
Elizabeth. God's death ! and where- 
fore spake you not before ? 
We dally with our lazy moments here, 
And hers are number'd. Horses there, 

without ! 
I am much beholden to the King, your 

master. 



Why did you keep me prating ? Horses, 

there ! [Exit Elizabeth, etc, 

Feria. So from a clear sky falls the 

thunderbolt ! 
Don Carlos? Madam, if you marry 

Philip, 
Then I and he will snaffle your ' God's 

death,' 
And break your paces in, and make you 

tame ; 
God's death, forsooth — you do not know 

King Philip. {Exit. 



SCENE IV. — London. Before the 
Palace 

A light btirnhig within. Voices of the 
night passing 

First. Is not yon light in the Queen's 

chamber ? 
Second. Ay, 

They say she's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, 

and make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 

Second. Amen. Come on. 

{Exetoit. 
Two Others 

First. There's the Queen's light. I 

hear she cannot live. 
Second. God curse her and her Legate ! 
Gardiner burns 
Already ; but to pay them full in kind, 
The hottest hold in all the devil's den 
Were but a sort of winter ; sir, in Guern- 
sey, 
I watch'd a woman burn ; and in her 

agony 
The mother came upon her — a child was 

born — 
And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire, 
That, being but baptized in fire, the babe 
Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good 

neighbour, 
There should be something fierier than fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

First. Amen to all 

Your wish, and further. 



648 



QUEEN MARY 



A Third Voice. Deserts ! Amen to 
what? Whose deserts? Yours? You 
have a gold ring on your finger, and soft 
raiment about your body ; and is not the 
woman up yonder sleeping after all she 
has done, in peace and quietness, on a 
soft bed, in a closed room, with light, 
fire, physic, tendance ; and I have seen 
the true men of Christ lying famine-dead 
by scores, and under no ceiling but the 
cloud that wept on them, not for them. 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not 
safe to preach. 
You had best go home. What are you ? 

Third. What am I ? One who cries 
continually with sweat and tears to the 
Lord God that it would please Him out 
of His infinite love to break down all 
kingship and queenship, all priesthood 
and prelacy ; to cancel and abolish all 
bonds of human allegiance, all the magis- 
tracy, all the nobles, and all the wealthy ; 
and to send us again, according to His 
promise, the one King, the Christ, and 
all things in common, as in the day of the 
first church, when Christ Jesus was King. 

First. If ever I heard a madman, — 
let's away ! 

Why, you long-winded Sir, you go 

beyond me. 
I pride myself on being moderate. 
Good night ! Go home. Besides, you 

curse so loud. 
The watch will hear you. Get you home 
at once. [Exeunt. 



SCENE v.— London. A Room in 
THE Palace 

A Gallery on one side. The moonlight 
streaming through a range of windows 
on the wall opposite. Mary, Lady 
Clarence, Lady Magdalen Dacres, 
Alice. Queen pacing the Gallery. 
A writing-table in front. QuEEN 
co77ies to the table and writes and goes 
again, pacing the Gallery. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : 
what hath she written ? read. 



Alice. ' I am dying, Philip ; come to 

me.' 
Lady Magdalen. There — up and down, 

poor lady, up and down. 
Alice. And how her shadow crosses 
one by one 
The moonlight casements pattern'd on 

the wall. 
Following her like her sorrow. She 
turns again. 
[Queen sits and writes, and goes again. 
Lady Clarence. What hath she written 

now ? 
Alice. Nothing ; but * come, come, 
come,' and all awry. 
And blotted by her tears. This cannot 
last. [Queen returns. 

Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken 
cage. 
And all in vain. [Sitting down. 

Calais gone — Guisnes gone, too — and 
Philip gone ! 
Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip 
is but at the wars ; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As your great King in armour there, his 

hand 
Upon his helmet. 

[Pointing to the portrait of Philip on 

the wall. 

Mary. Doth he not look noble ? 

I had heard of him in battle over seas, 

And I would have my warrior all in arms. 

He said it was not courtly to stand 

helmeted 
Before the Queen. He had his gracious 

moment, 
Altho' you'll not believe me. How he 

smiles 
As if he loved me yet ! 

Lady Clarence. And so he does. 

Mary. He never loved me — nay, he 
could not love me. 
It was his father's policy against France. 
I am eleven years older than he. 
Poor boy ! [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a lusty boy of twenty- 
seven ; [Aside 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



649 



Poor enough in God's grace ! 

Mary, — And all in vain ! 

The Queen of Scots is married to the 

Dauphin, 
And Charles, the lord of this low world, 

is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past away ; 
And in a moment I shall follow him. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, 

see your good physician. 
Mary. Drugs — but he knows they 

cannot help me — says 
That rest is all — tells me I must not 

think — 
That I must rest — I shall rest by and by. 
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when 

he springs 
And maims himself against the bars, say 

' rest ' : 
Why, you must kill him if you would 

have him rest — 
Dead or alive you cannot make him happy. 
Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has 

lived so pure a life. 
And done such mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy yet. 
Mary. What is the strange thing 

happiness ? Sit down here : 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Clarence. I will, if that 

May make your Grace forget yourself a 

little. 
There runs a shallow brook across our field 
For twenty miles, where the black crow 

flies five. 
And doth so bound and babble all the way 
As if itself were happy. It was May-time, 
And I was walking with the man I loved. 
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. 
And both were silent, letting the wild 

brook 
Speak for us — till he stoop'd and gather'd 

one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave 

it me. 
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it. 
And put it in my bosom, and all at once 
I felt his arms about me, and his lips 



ALaty. O God ! I have been too slack, 

too slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among 

our guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have 

but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and women 

and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, 

wrath, — 
We have so play'd the coward ; but by 

God's grace, 
We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up 
The Holy Office here — garner the wheat, 
And burn the tares with unquenchable fire ! 
Burn !— 

Fie, what a savour ! tell the cooks to close 
The doors of all the offices below. 
Latimer ! 

Sir, we are private with our women here — 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fel- 
low — 
Thou light a torch that never will go 

out ! 
'Tis out — mine flames. Women, the 

Holy Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin 

Pole- 
Was that well done ? and poor Pole pines 

of it. 
As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, 
I have no power. — Ah, weak and meek 

old man, 
Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight 
Of thine own sectaries — No, no. No 

pardon ! — 
Why that was false : there is the right 

hand still 
Beckons me hence. 
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for 

treason, 
Remember that ! 'twas I and Bonner did 

it, 
And Pole; we are three to one — Have 

you found mercy there. 
Grant it me here : and see, he smiles and 

goes. 
Gentle as in life. 

Alice. Madam, who goes ? King 

Philip ? 



650 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, 

but never goes. 
Women, when I am dead. 
Open my heart, and there you will find 

written 
Two names, Philip and Calais ; open 

his, — 
So that he have one, — 
You will find Philip only, policy, policy, — 
Ay, worse than that — not one hour true 

to me ! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd 

vice ! 
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. 
Hast thou a knife ? 

Alice. Ay, Madam, but o' God's 

mercy — 
Mary. Fool, think'st thou I would 

peril mine own soul 
By slaughter of the body ? I could not, 

girl, 
Not this way — callous with a constant 

stripe, 
Unwoundable. The knife ! 

Alice. Take heed, take heed ! 

The blade is keen as death. 

Mary. This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggardness ; 
Old, miserable, diseased. 
Incapable of children. Come thou down. 
[C«/j- out the picture and throws it down. 
Lie there. {Wails) O God, I have 
kill'd my Philip ! 
Alice. No, 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas out ; 
We can replace it. 

Mary. All is well then ; rest — 

I will to rest ; he said, I must have rest. 

\Cries of ' Elizabeth ' in the street. 

Aery! What's that ? Elizabeth? revolt? 

A new Northumberland, another Wyatt ? 

ril fight it on the threshold of the 

grave. 

Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal 

sister comes to see you, 
Mary. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my 

sister ? 
I will see none except the priest. Your 
arm. [ To Lady Clarence. 



O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn 

smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles — Help me 

hence. {^Exeunt. 

The VVimsT passes. Enter Elizabeth 

and^iv^ William Cecil 
Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 

No one in waiting ? still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death himself! 
The room she sleeps in — is not this the 

way? 
No, that way there are voices. Am I 

too late ? 
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose the 

way. {Exit Elizabeth. 

Cecil. Many points weather'd, many 

perilous ones. 
At last a harbour opens ; but therein 
Sunk rocks — they need fine steering — 

much it is 
To be nor mad, nor bigot — have a mind — 
Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds 

to be, 
Miscolour things about her — sudden 

touches 
For him, or him — sunk rocks ; no pas- 
sionate faith — 
But — if let be — balance and compromise; 
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her — a 

Tudor 
School'd by the shadow of death — a 

Boleyn, too. 
Glancing across the Tudor — not so well. 

Enter Alice 
How is the good Queen now ? 

Alice. Away from Philip. 

Back in her childhood — prattling to her 

mother 
Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — and 

once 
She thank'd her father sweetly for his 

book 
Against that godless German. Ah, those 

days 
Were happy. It was never merry world 
In England, since the Bible came among 

us. 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



651 



Cecil. And who says that ? 

Alice. It is a saying among the 

Cathohcs. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world in 

England, 
Till all men have their Bible, rich and 

poor. 
Alice. The Queen is dying, or you 

dare not say it. 

Enter Elizabeth 

Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! my 

homage. 
Elizabeth. She knew me, and ac- 
knowledged me her heir, 
Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the 

Faith ; 
Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away 

in peace. 
I left her lying still and beautiful. 
More beautiful than in life. Why would 

you vex yourself. 
Poor sister ? Sir, I swear I have no heart 
To be your Queen. To reign is restless 
fence. 



Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with 

the dead. 
Her life was winter, for her spring was 

nipt : 
And she loved much : pray God she be 

forgiven. 
Cecil. Peace with the dead, who never 

were at peace ! 
Yet she loved one so much — I needs must 

say — 
That never English monarch dying left 
England so little. 

Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be secured 
From traitor stabs — we will make England 

great. 

Enter Paget, and other Lords of the 
Council, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, 

etc. 

Lords. God save Elizabeth, the Queen 

of England ! 
Bagenhall. God save the Crown ! the 

Papacy is no more. 
Paget {aside). Are we so sure of that ? 
Acclamation. God save the Queen ! 



HAROLD 

A DRAMA 

To His Excellency 
THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON 

Viceroy and Governor-General of hidia. 

My dear Lord Lytton,— After old-world records— such as the Bayeux tapestry and the Roman 
de Rou, — Edward Freeman's History of the Norman Conquest, and your father's Historical Romance 
treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in writing this Drama. Your father 
dedicated his ' Harold ' to my father's brother ; allow me to dedicate my ' Harold ' to yourself. 

A. TENNYSON. 

SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876 

A GARDEN here — May breath and bloom of spring — 

The cuckoo yonder from an Enghsh elm 

Crying ' with my false egg I overwhelm 

The native nest ' : and fancy hears the ring 

Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing, 

And Saxon battleaxe clang on Norman helm. 

Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : 

Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander'd king. 

O Garden blossoming out of English blood ! 

O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare 

Where might made right eight hundred years ago ; 

Might, right ? ay good, so all things make for good — 

But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 

Each stands full face with all he did below. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 
King Edward the Confessor. 

Stigand, created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Antipole Benedict. 
Aldred, Archbishop of York. The Norman Bishop of London. 

Harold, Earl of IVessex, afterwards King of England 

ToSTiG, Earl of NorthumbHa , „ r 

„ T- 7 /• X- - ^ , . I Sons of 

Gurth, Earl of East Anglia \ C d >' 

Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex 

wulfnoth 

Count William of Normandy. William Rufus. 

William Malet, a Norman Noble^ 

Bdwin, Earl of Mc7'cia \ Sons of A If gar of 

MoRCAR, Earl of N'orthutnbria after Tostig j Mercia. 

Gamel, a Northumbrian Thane. Guy, Count of Ponthieu. 

Rolf, a Ponthieu Fishertiian. Hugh Margot, a Norman Monk. 

OsGOD and Athelric, Canons from Waltham. 

The Queen, Edward the Confessors Wife, Daughter of Godwin. 

Aldwyth, Daughter of a Ifgar and Widow ofGf-iffyth, King of Wales. 

Edith, Ward of King Edward. 

Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, Fishermen, etc. 

1 . . . quidam partim Normannus at Anglus 
Compater Heraldi. {Guy of Amiens, 587.) 

652 



HAROLD 



653 



ACT I 

SCENE I.— London. The King's 
Palace 

{^A comet seen through the open window) 

Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talking 
together 

First Courtier. Lo ! there once more 
— this is the seventh night ! 
Yon grimly - glaring, treble - brandish'd 

scourge 
Of England ! 

Second Courtier. Horrible ! 
First Courtier. Look you, there's a 
star 
That dances in it as mad with agony ! 
Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in 
Hell who skips and flies 
To right and left, and cannot scape the 
flame. 
Second Courtier. Steam'd upward 
from the undescendible 
Abysm. 

First Courtier. Or floated downward 
from the throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 

Gamel. War, my dear lady ! 

Aldivyth. Doth this aftright thee ? 
Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady ! 

Aldwyth. Stand by me then, and look 
upon my face, 
Not on the comet. 

Enter Morcar 

Brother ! why so pale ? 
Morcar. It glares in heaven, it flares 
upon the Thames, 
The people are as thick as bees below. 
They hum like bees, — they cannot speak 

— for awe ; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it. 
I think that they would Molochize them 

too, 
To have the heavens clear. 

Aldwyth. They fright not me. 



Enter Leofwin, after him Gurth 

Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks 
of this ! 
Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou 
believe, that these 
Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder 

mean 
The doom of England and the wrath of 
Heaven ? 
Bishop of London (passi^ig). Did ye 
not cast with bestial violence 
Our holy Norman bishops down from all 
Their thrones in England ? I alone 

remain. 
Why should not Heaven be wroth ? 
Leofwin. With us, or thee ? 

Bishop of London. Did ye not outlaw 
your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumieges — well-nigh murder 

him too ? 
Is there no reason for the wrath of Heaven ? 
Leofwin. Why then the wrath of 
Heaven hath three tails, 
The devil only one. 

\^Exit Bishop of London. 

Enter Archbishop Stigand 

Ask otir Archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of 
Heaven. 
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the 
face of heaven ; 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better 
for it. 
Leofwin {laughing). He can but read 

the king's face on his coins. 
Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there the 

king's face is power. 
Gurth. O father, mock not at a public 
fear. 
But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven 
A harm to England ? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! 

And he may tell thee, / am a harm to 

England. 
Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 
Who had my palHum from an Antipope ! 
Not he the man — for in our windy world 
What's up is faith, what's down is heresy. 



654 



HAROLD 



ACT I 



Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake 

his chair. 
I have a Norman fever on me, son, 
And cannot answer sanely . . . What it 

means ? 
Ask our broad Earl. 

[Pointing to Harold, who eiiters. 
Harold {seeing GdimeY). Hail, Gamel, 
son of Orm ! 
Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend 

Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy 

life at home 
Is easier than mine here. Look ! am I 

not 
Work-wan, flesh-fallen ? 

Gamel. Art thou sick, good Earl ? 

Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow 
for a voyage. 
Sick for an idle week of hawk and hound 
Beyond the seas — a change ! When 
camest thou hither ? 
Gamel. To-day, good Earl. 
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel ? 
Gafuel. Nay, there be murmurs, for 
thy brother breaks us 
With over-taxing — quiet, ay, as yet — 
Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old 
friend. 
Thou art a great voice in Northumber- 
land ! 
Advise him : speak him sweetly, he will 

hear thee. 
He is passionate but honest. Stand thou 

by him ! 
More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird 

sign _ 
Not blast us in our dreams. — Well, father 
Stigand — 
{To Stigand, who advances to him. 
Stigand {pointing to the comet). War 
there, my son ? is that the doom 
of England ? 
Harold. Why not the doom of all the 
world as well ? 
For all the world sees it as well as Eng- 
land. 
These meteors came and went before our 
day, 



Not harming any : it threatens us no 

more 
Than French or Norman. War? the 

worst that follows 
Things that seem jerk'd out of the common 

rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool, 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for heaven's 

credit 
Makes it on earth : but look, where 

Edward draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tostig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig much 

of late. 
Leo/win. And he hath learnt, despite 

the tiger in him. 
To sleek and supple himself to the king's 

hand. 
Gurth. I trust the kingly touch that 

cures the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of him. 
Leofiuin. He hath as much of cat as 

tiger in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand and not the 

man. 
Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ! 

Enter King, Queen, and Tostig 
Edward. In heaven signs ! 

Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! 

your Priests 
Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn'd ! 
They scarce can read their Psalter ; and 

your churches 
Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Norman- 
land 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as He dwells 
In statelier shrines. I say not this, as being 
Half Norman-blooded, nor as some have 

held, 
Because I love the Norman better — no, 
But dreading God's revenge upon this 

realm 
For narrowness and coldness : and I say 

it 
For the last time perchance, before I go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity : 
I have builded the great church of Holy 

Peter : 



HAROLD 



655 



I have wrought miracles — to God the 

glory— 
And miracles will in my name be wrought 
Hereafter. — I have fought the fight and 

go— 
I see the flashing of the gates of pearl — 
And it is well with me, tho' some of you 
Have scorn'd me — ay — but after I am 

gone 
Woe, woe to England ! I have had a 

vision ; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephesus 
Have turn'd from right to left. 

Harold. My most dear Master, 

What matters ? let them turn from left 

to right 
And sleep again. 

Tostig. Too hardy with thy king ! 

A life of prayer and fasting well may see 
Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good brother. 

Aldwyth {aside). Sees he into thine, 
That thou wouldst have his promise for 

the crown ? 
Edward. Tostig says true ; my son, 

thou art too hard. 
Not stagger'd by this ominous earth and 

heaven : 
But heaven and earth are threads of the 

same loom. 
Play into one another, and weave the web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold. Nay, I trust not. 

For I have served thee long and honestly. 

Edward. I know it, son ; I am not 

thankless : thou 
Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for me 
The weight of this poor crown, and left 

me time 
And peace for prayer to gain a better one. 
Twelve years of service ! England loves 

thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her ! 

Aldwyth [aside). So, not Tostig ! 

Harold. And after those twelve years 

a boon, my king. 
Respite, a holiday : thyself wast wont 
To love the chase : thy leave to set my feet 
On board, and hunt and hawk beyond 

the seas ! 



Edward. What with this flaming 

horror overhead ? 
Harold. Well, when it passes then. 
Edward. Ay if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold. And wherefore not, my king, 
to Normandy ? 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee ? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring him 
home. 
Edward. Not thee, my son : some 

other messenger. 
Harold. And why not me, my lord, 
to Normandy? 
Is not the Norman Count thy friend and 
mine ? 
Edward. I pray thee, do not go to 

Normandy. 
Harold. Because my father drove the 
Normans out 
Of England ? — That was many a summer 

gone — 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and thee. 
Edward. Harold, I will not yield 

thee leave to go. 
Harold. Why then to Flanders. I 
will hawk and hunt 
In Flanders. 

Edward. Be there not fair woods and 
fields 
In England? Wilful, wilful. Go— the 

Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering out 
And homeward, Tostig, I am faint again. 
Son Harold, I will in and pray for thee. 
\_Exit, leaning on Tostig, and 
followed by Stigand, Morcar, and 
Courtiers. 
Harold. What lies upon the mind of 
our good king 
That he should harp this way on 
Normandy ? 
Queen. Brother, the king is wiser 
than he seems ; 
And Tostig knows it ; Tostig loves the 
king. 
Harold. And love should know ; and 
— be the king so wise, — 



656 



HAROLD 



Then Tostig too were wiser than he seems. 
I love the man but not his phantasies. 

Re-enter Tostig 

Well, brother, 

When didst thou hear from thy North- 

umbria ? 
Tostig. When did I hear aught but 

this ' When ' from thee ? 
Leave me alone, brother, with my 

Northumbria : 
She is my mistress, let me look to her ! 
The King hath made me Earl ; make me 

not fool ! 
Nor make the King a fool, who made 

me Earl I 
Harold. No, Tostig — lest I make 

myself a fool 
Who made the King who made thee, 

make thee Earl. 
Tostig. Why chafe me then ? Thou 

knowest I soon go wild. 
Gurth. Come, come ! as yet thou art 

not gone so wild 
But thou canst hear the best and wisest 

of us. 
Harold. So says old Gurth, not I : 

yet hear ! thine earldom, 
Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their old 

crown 
Is yet a force among them, a sun set 
But leavinglight enough for Alfgar's house 
To strike thee down l)y — nay, this ghastly 

glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. My most worthy brother. 

Thou art the quietest man in all the world — 
Ay, ay and wise in peace and great in war — 
Pray God the people choose thee for 

their king ! 
But all the powers of the house of Godwin 
Are not enframed in thee. 

Harold. Thank the Saints, no ! 

But thou hast drain'd them shallow by 

thy tolls. 
And thou art ever here about the King : 
Thine absence well may seem a want of 

care. 
Cling to their love ; for, now the sons of 

Godwin 



Sit topmost in the field of England, envy, 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, 

good brother, 
Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. Good counsel truly ! 

I heard from my Northumbria yesterday. 

Harold. How goes it then with thy 

Northumbria ? Well ? 
Tostig. And wouldst thou that it went 

aught else than well ? 
Harold. I would it went as well as 
with mine earldom, 
Leofwin's and Gurth's. 

Tostig. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth. We have made them milder 

by just government. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves your 

own good word. 
Leofwin. An honest gift, by all the 
Saints, if giver 
And taker be but honest ! but they bribe 
Each other, and so often, an honest world 
Will not believe them, 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 

I heard from thy Northumberland to-day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to spy 
my nakedness 
In my poor North ! 

Harold. There is a movement there, 
A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once 

With all the power I have ! — I must — I 

will !— 
Crush it half-born ! Fool still ? or wis- 
dom there. 
My wise head-shaking Harold ? 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom when 

in power 
And wisest, should not frown as Power, 

but smile 
As kindness, watching all, till the true 

must 
Shall make her strike as Power : but 

when to strike — 
O Tostig, O dear brother — If they prance, 
Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear and 

run 
And break both neck and axle. 

Tostig. Good again ! 



HAROLD 



657 



Good counsel tho' scarce needed. Pour 

not water 
In the full vessel running out at top 
To swamp the house. 

Leo/win. Nor thou be a wild thing 
Out of the waste, to turn and bite the 

hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thou playest in tune. 

Leo/win. To the deaf adder thee, that 
wilt not dance 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more ! 

Gurth. I likewise cry 'no more.' 
Unwholesome talk 
For Godwin's house ! Leofwin, thou 

hast a tongue ! 
Tostig, thou look'st as thou wouldst 

spring upon him. 
St. Olaf, not while I am by ! Come, 

come. 
Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity ; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our 

shield-wall, 
Who breaks us then ? I say, thou hast 

a tongue. 
And Tostig is not stout enough to bear it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext, — 

Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 
I have to make report of my good earldom 
To the good king who gave it — not to 

you — 
Not any of you. — I am not vext at all. 
Harold. The king? the king is ever 
at his prayers ; 
In all that handles matter of the state 
[ I am the king. 

Tostig. That shalt thou never be 

If I can thwart thee. 

Harold. Brother, brother ! 

Tostig. Away ! 

l^Exit Tostig. 
Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye 
three must gall 
Poor Tostig. 

Leofwin. Tostig, sister, galls himself ; 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his nose 
Against the thorn, and rails against the 
rose. 



Queen. I am the only rose of all the 
stock 
That never thorn'd him ; Edward loves 

him, so 
Ye hate him, Harold always hated him. 
Why — how they fought when boys — and. 

Holy Mary ! 
How Harold used to beat him ! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I beat 

him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had 

much ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. 

Old Gurth, 
We fought like great states for grave 

cause ; but Tostig — 
On a sudden — at a something — for a 

nothing — 
The boy would fist me hard, and when 

we fought 
I conquer'd, and he loved me none the less, 
Till thou wouldst get him all apart, and 

tell him 
That where he was but worsted, he was 

wrong'd. 
Ah ! thou hast taught the king to spoil 

him too ; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. Take 

heed, take heed ; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and girl 

no more : 
Side not with Tostig in any violence. 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the 
violence. 
Queen. Come fall not foul on me. I 

leave thee, brother. 
Harold. Nay, my good sister — 
" [Exeunt Queen, Harold, Gurth, and 
Leofwin. 
Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 

[^Fointijtg to the comet. 
Gamel. War, my dear lady, 

War, waste, plague, famine, all malig- 
nities. 
Aldwyth. It means the fall of Tostig 

from his earldom. 
Gamel. That were too small a matter 
for a comet ! 

2 U 



658 



HAROLD 



Aldwyth. It means the lifting of the 

house of Alfgar. 
Gatnel. Too small ! a comet would 

not show for that ! 
Aldwyth. Not small for thee, if thou 

canst compass it. 
Gainel. Thy love ? 
Aldwyth. As much as I can give 

thee, man ; 
This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant ; 
Stir up thy people : oust him ! 

Gamel. And thy love ? 

Aldwyth. As much as thou canst bear. 
GaDiel. I can bear all. 

And not be giddy. 

Aldwyth. No more now : to-morrow. 

SCENE II.— In the Garden. The 
King's House near London. 
Sunset. 

Edith. Mad for thy mate, passionate 

nightingale . . . 
I love thee for it — ay, but stay a moment ; 
He can but stay a moment : he is going. 
I fain would hear him coming ! . . . near 

me . . near, 
Somewhere — To draw him nearer with a 

charm 
Like thine to thine. 

{Singing) 
Love is come with a song and a smile. 
Welcome Love with a smile and a 

song : 
Love can stay but a little while. 
Why cannot he stay ? They call him 

away : 
Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong ; 
Love will stay for a whole life long. 

Enter Harold 

Harold. The nightingales in Havering- 
atte-Bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that 

Edward's prayers 
Were deafen'd and he pray'd them dumb, 

and thus 
I dumb thee too, my wingless nightingale ! 
\^Kissing her. 



Edith. Thou art my music ! Would 

their wings were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders ! Must thou 

go? 
Harold. Not must, but will. It is 

but for one moon. 
Edith. Leaving so many foes in 

Edward's hall 
To league against thy weal. The Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and when she touch'd 

on thee. 
She stammer'd in her hate ; I am sure 

she hates thee, 
Pants for thy blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given her 

cause — 
I fear no woman. 

Edith. Hate not one who felt 

Some pity for thy hater ! I am sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so 

praised 
The convent and lone life — within the 

pale — 
Beyond the passion. Nay — she held with 

Edward, 
At least methought she held with holy 

Edward, 
That marriage was half sin. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb — thus {snaps his 

fingers). And my answer to it — 
See here — an interwoven H and E ! 
Take thou this ring ; I will demand his 

ward 
From Edward when I come again. Ay, 

would she ? 
She to shut up my blossom in the dark ! 
Thou ^x\.my nun, thy cloister in mine arms. 
Edith {taking the ring). Yea, but 

Earl Tostig — 

Harold. That's a truer fear ! 

For if the North take fire, I should be back ; 

I shall be, soon enough. 

Edith. Ay, but last night 

An evil dream that ever came and went — 

Harold. A gnat that vext thy pillow ! 

Had I been by, 
I would have spoil'd his horn. My girl, 

what was it ? 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



659 



Edith. Oh ! that thou wert not going ! 

For so methought it was our marriage- 
morn, 

And while we stood together, a dead man 

Rose from behind the altar, tore away 

My marriage ring, and rent my bridal veil ; 

And then I turn'd, and saw the church 
all fiird 

With dead men upright from their graves, 
and all 

The dead men made at thee to murder 
thee. 

But thou didst back thyself against a 
pillar, 

And strike among them with thy battle- 
axe — 

There, what a dream ! 

Haj'oid. Well, well — a dream — 

no more ! 
Edith. Did not Heaven speak to men 

in dreams of old ? 
Harold. Ay— well— of old. I tell 
thee what, my child ; 

Thou hast misread this merry dream of 
thine, 

Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 

For smooth stone columns of the sanc- 
tuary. 

The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer 

For dead men's ghosts. True, that the 
battle-axe 

Was out of place ; it should have been 
the bow. — 

Come, thou shalt dream no more such 
dreams ; I swear it. 

By mine own eyes — and these two sap- 
phires — these 

Twin rubies, that are amulets against all 

The kisses of all kind of womankind 

In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me back 

To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That would but shame me. 

Rather than make me vain. The sea mav 
roll 

Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the living 
rock 

Which guards the land. 

Harold. Except it be a soft one. 

And undereaten to the fall. Mine 
amulet . . . 



This last . . . upon thine eyelids, to 

shut in 
A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and thou 

shalt see 
My grayhounds fleeting like a beam of 

light. 
And hear my peregrine and her bells in 

heaven ; 
And other bells on earth, which yet are 

heaven's ; 
Guess what they be. 

Edith. He cannot guess who knows. 
Farewell, my king. 

Ha7'old. Not yet, but then — my queen. 
\^Exeunt. 

Enter Ai.DWYTn from the thicket 
Aldwyth. The kiss that charms thine 

eyelids into sleep. 
Will hold mine waking. Hate him ? I 

could love him 
More, tenfold, than this fearful child can 

do ; 
Griffyth I hated : why not hate the foe 
Of England ? Griffyth when I saw him 

flee, 
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all 

the blood 
That should have only pulsed for Griffyth, 

beat 
For his pursuer. I love him or think I 

love him. 
If he were King of England, I his queen, 
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love 

him. — 
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest the 

king 
Should yield his ward to Harold's will. 

What harm ? 
She hath but blood enough to live, not 

love. — 
When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I 

play 
The craftier Tostig with him ? fawn upon 

him ? 
Chime in with all ? ' O thou more saint 

than king ! ' 
And that were true enough. ' O blessed 

relics ! ' 
' O Holy Peter ! ' If he found me thus, 



66o 



HAROLD 



Harold might hate me ; he is broad and 

honest, 
Breathing an easy gladness . . . not 

like Aldwyth . . . 
For which I strangely love him. Should 

not England 
Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds that 

part 
The sons of Godwin from the sons of 

Alfgar 
By such a marrying? Courage, noble 

Aldwyth ! 
Let all thy people bless thee ! 

Our wild Tostig, 
Edward hath made him Earl : he would 

be king : — 
The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the 

bone. — 
I trust he may do well, this Gamel, whom 
I play upon, that he may play the note 
Whereat the dog shall howl and run, and 

Harold 
Hear the king's music, all alone with him, 
Pronounced his heir of England. 
I see the goal and half the way to it. — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake 
Of England's wholeness — so — to shake 

the North 
With earthquake and disruption — some 

division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in the gap 
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offering, 
A scape -goat marriage — all the sins of 

both 
The houses on mine head — then a fair life 
And bless the Queen of England. 

Morcar {coming from the thicket). Art 

thou assured 
By this, that Harold loves but Edith ? 

Aldwyth. Morcar ! 

Why creep'st thou Hke a timorous beast 

of prey 
Out of the bush by night ? 

Morcar. I follow'd thee. 

Aldwyth. Follow my lead, and I will 

make thee earl. 
Morcar. What lead then ? 
Aldwyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly 
Among the good Northumbrian folk, 

that I— 



That Harold loves me — yea, and presently 
That I and Harold are betroth'd — and 

last- 
Perchance that Harold wrongs me ; tho' 

I would not 
That it should come to that. 

Morcar. I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Aldwyth. I said ' secretly ' ; 

It is the flash that murders, the poor 

thunder 
Never harm'd head. 

Morcar. But thunder may bring down 
That which the flash hath stricken. 

Aldwyth. Down with Tostig ! 

That first of all. — And when doth Harold 
go? 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Bosham, 

then to Flanders. 
Aldwyth. Not to come back till 
Tostig shall have shown 
And redden'd with his people's blood the 

teeth 
That shall be broken by us — yea, and 

thou 
Chair' d in his place. Good -night, and 

dream thyself 
Their chosen Earl. {^Exit Aldwyth. 

Morcar. Earl first, and after that 

Who knows I may not dream myself their 
king! 



ACT n 

SCENE I.— Seashore. Ponthieu. 
Night 

Harold and his Men, wrecked 

Harold. Friends, in that last inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but ours 
are whole ; 

I have but bark'd my hands. 

Attendant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and clinging 
thus 

Felt the remorseless outdraught of the 
deep 

Haul like a great strong fellow at my legs, 



HAROLD 



66i 



And then I rose and ran. The blast that 
came 

So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 

Put thou the comet and this blast to- 
gether — 
Harold. Put thou thyself and mother- 
wit together. 

Be not a fool ! 

Enter Fishermen with torches^ Harold 
going up to one of them, Rolf 

Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy lying 

lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks of 
thine ! 
jRolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as the 
black herrings-pond behind thee. We be 
fishermen ; 1 came to see after my nets. 
Harold. To drag us into them. 
Fishermen ? devils ! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your 

false fires. 
Let the great Devil fish for your own souls. 
Rolf. Nay then, we be liker the blessed 
Apostles; //z-y/ were fishers of men. Father 
Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish had 
swallowed me, 
Like Jonah, than have known there were 

such devils. 
What's to be done ? 

\To his Men — goes apart with them. 
Fisherj?ian. Rolf, what fish did swallow 

Jonah ? 
Rolf. A whale ! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk 
we have swallowed the King of England. 
I saw him over there. Look thee, Rolf, 
when I was down in the fever, she was 
down with the hunger, and thou didst 
stand by her and give her thy crabs, and 
set her up again, till now, by the patient 
Saints, she's as crabb'd as ever. 

Rolf And I'll give her my crabs again, 
when thou art down again. 

Fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run 
thou to Count Guy ; he is hard at hand. 
Tell him what hath crept into our creel, 
and he will fee thee as freely as he will 



wrench this outlander's ransom out of 
him — and why not ? for what right had 
he to get himself wrecked on another 
man's land ? 

Rolf. Thou art the human -heartedest, 
Christian-charitiest of all crab-catchers. 
Share and share alike ! {^Exit. 

Harold {to Fisherman). Fellow, dost 
thou catch crabs? 

Fisherman. As few as I may in a 
wind, and less than I would in a calm. 
Ay! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou shalt 
catch no more. 

Fishei'man. How ? 

Harold. I have a mind to brain thee 
with mine axe. 

Fisher7nan. Ay, do, do, and our great 
Count-crab will make his nippers meet 
in thine heart ; he'll sweat it out of thee, 
he'll sweat it out of thee. Look, he's 
here ! He'll speak for himself ! Hold 
thine own, if thou canst ! 

Enter GuY, Count of Ponthieu 
Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu ? 
Gny. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! 

Harold. Thy villains with their lying 

lights have wreck'd us ! 
Guy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex ? 
Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a 

bush. 
And leave them for a year, and coming 

back 
Find them again. 

Guy. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom ! 

Harold. Were such murderous liars 
In Wessex — if I caught them, they should 

hang 
Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks ; our sea-mew 
Winging their only wail ! 

Gny. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of 

God;— 
What hinders me to hold with mine own 
men ? 
Harold. The Christian manhood of 
the man who reigns ! 



662 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our 

oubliettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him 

hence ! [ To one of his Attendants. 
Fly thou to William ; tell him we have 

Harold. 



SCENE H.— Bayeux. Palace 
Count William and William Malet 

William. We hold our Saxon wood- 
cock in the springe, 
But he begins to flutter. As I think 
He was thine host in England when I 

went 
To visit Edward. 

Malet. Yea, and there, my lord. 

To make allowance for their rougher 

fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should be. 
William. Thou art his friend : thou 

know'st my claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise : we have him 

in the toils. 
And it were well, if thou shouldst let him 

feel, 
How dense a fold of danger nets him 

round, 
So that he bristle himself against my 

will. 
Malet. What would I do, my lord, 

if I were you ? 
William. What wouldst thou do? 
Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. 

William. Nay, by the splendour of 

God, no guest of mine. 
He came not to see me, had past me by 
To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for 

the fate 
Which hunted him when that un-Saxon 

blast. 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high 

heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave and 

crack'd 
His boat on Ponthieu beach ; where our 

friend Guy 
Had wrung his ransom from him by the 

rack, 



But that I stept between and purchased 

him. 
Translating his captivity from Guy 
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where 

he sits 
My ransom'd prisoner. 

Malet. Well, if not with gold. 

With golden deeds and iron strokes that 

brought 
Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier close 
Than else had been, he paid his ransom 

back, 
William. So that henceforth they are 

not like to league 
With Harold against me. 

Malet. A marvel, how 

He from the liquid sands of Coesnon 
Haled thy shore -swallow'd, armour'd 

Normans up 
To fight for thee again ! 

William. Perchance against 

Their saver, save thou save him from 

himself. 
Malet. But I should let him home 

again, my lord. 
William. Simple ! let fly the bird 

within the hand. 
To catch the bird again within the bush ! 
No. 
Smooth thou my way, before he clash 

with me ; 
I want his voice in England for the 

crown, 
I want thy voice with him to bring him 

round ; 
And being brave he must be subtly cow'd, 
And being truthful wrought upon to swear 
Vows that he dare not break. England 

our own 
Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my dear 

friend 
As well as thine, and thou thyself shalt 

have 
Large lordship there of lands and territory. 
Malet. I knew thy purpose ; he and 

Wulfnoth never 
Have met, except in public ; shall they 

meet 
In private ? I have often talk'd with 

Wulfnoth, 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



663 



And stuff 'd the boy with fears that these 

may act 
On Harold when they meet. 

Williaju. Then let them meet ! 

Alalet. I can but love this noble, 

honest Harold. 
William. Love him! why not? thine 
is a loving office, 
I have commission'd thee to save the 

man : 
Help the good ship, showing the sunken 

rock, 
Or he is wreckt for ever. 

Enter WiLLiAM RUFUS 
William Rtifus. Father. 

William. Well, boy. 

William Ruftis. They have taken 
away the toy thou gavest me, 
The Norman knight. 

William. Why, boy? 

William Rufus. Because I broke 

The horse's leg — it was mine own to 

break ; 
I like to have my toys, and break them too. 
William. Well, thou shalt have 

another Norman knight ! 
William Rufus. And may I break his 

legs? 
William. Yea, — get thee gone ! 
William Rufus. I'll tell them I have 
had my way with thee. [Exit. 
Malet. I never knew thee check thy 
will for ought 
Save for the prattling of thy little ones. 
William. Who shall be kings of 
England. I am heir 
Of England by the promise of her king. 
Malet. But there the great Assembly 
choose their king. 
The choice of England is the voice of 
England. 
William. I will be king of England 
by the laws. 
The choice, and voice of England. 

Alalet. Can that be ? 

William. The voice of any people is 
the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that beats 
them down. 



Here comes the would-be what I will 

be . . . kinglike . . . 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our meshes 

break. 
More kinglike he than like to prove a 

king. 

Enter Harold, musing, with his eyes 

on the ground 
He sees me not — and yet he dreams of 

me. 
Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair 

day? 
They are of the best, strong- wing'd against 
the wind, 
Harold {looking up suddenly, having 
caught but the last word). Which 
way does it blow ? 
William. Blowing for England, ha ? 
Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy 

quarters here. 
The winds so cross and jostle among 
these towers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, thou 
hast ransom'd us, 
Maintain'd, and entertain'd us royally ! 
William. And thou for us hast fought 
as loyally. 
Which binds us friendship-fast for ever ! 
Harold. Good ! 

But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would 

fain, 
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth home 

with us. 
Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

William. Stay — as yet 

Thou hast but seen how Norman hands 

can strike, 
But walk'd our Norman field, scarce 

touch'd or tasted 
The splendours of our Court. 

Harold. I am in no mood: 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
Crossing your light. 

Williavi. Nay, rest a week or two, 
And we will fill thee full of Norman sun, 
And send thee back among thine island 

mists 
With laughter. 



664 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



I 



Harold. Count, I thank thee, but 
had rather 
Breathe the free wind from off our Saxon 

downs, 
Tho' charged with all the wet of all the 
west. 
William. Why if thou wilt, so let it 
be — thou shalt. 
That were a graceless hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the banquet- 
board ; 
To-morrow we will ride with thee to 

Harfleur, 
And see thee shipt, and pray in thy behalf 
For happier homeward winds than that 

which crack'd 
Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in faith, 
A happy one — whereby we came to know 
Thy valour and thy value, noble earl. 
Ay, and perchance a happy one for thee, 
Provided — I will go with thee to-mor- 
row — 
Nay — but there be conditions, easy ones. 
So thou, fair friend, will take them easily. 

Enter Page 
Page. My lord, there is a post from 

over seas 
With news for thee. \^Exit Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear ! 
{^Exeunt Count William and Malet. 
Harold. Conditions ? Wliat condi- 
tions ? pay him back 
His ransom ? ' easy ' — that were easy — 

nay — 
No money -lover he ! What said the 

King? 
' I pray you do not go to Normandy. ' 
And fate hath blown me hither, bound 

me too 
With bitter obligation to the Count — 
Have I not fought it out ? What did he 

mean ? 
There lodged a gleaming grimness in his 

eyes, 
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The walls 

oppress me. 
And yon huge keep that hinders half the 

heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 



\_Moves to go out. A Man-at-arms 

follows him. 

Harold {to the Man-at-arms). ^ I need 

thee not. Why dost thou follow 

me? 

Man-at-arms. I have the Count's 

commands to follow thee. 
Harold. What then ? Am I in danger 

in this court ? 
Man-at-arms. I cannot tell. I have 

the Count's commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, 
and keep me still 
In eyeshot. 

Man-at-arms. Yea, lord Harold. 

[ Withdraws. 

Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep watch beside my chamber door. 

And if I walk within- the lonely wood. 

There is an arm'd man ever glides behind ! 

Enter Malet 
Why am I foUow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch'd ? 
See yonder ! 

[Poi7iting to the Man-at-arms. 
Malet. 'Tis the good Count's care for 
thee! 
The Normans love thee not, nor thou the 

Normans, 
Or — so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wind, 
Which way soever the vane-arrow swing, 
Not ever fair for England? Why but 

now 
He said (thou heardst him) that I must 

not hence 
Save on conditions. 

Malet. So in truth he said. 

Haj'old. Malet, thy mother was an 
Englishwoman ; 
There somewhere beats an English puis 
in thee ! 

Malet. Well — for my mother's sak€ 

I love your England, 

But for my father I love Normandy. 

Harold. Speak for thy mother's sakej 

and tell me true. 
Malet. Then for my mother's sakt 
and England's sake 



HAROLD 



66s 



That suffers in the daily want of thee, 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good 
friend. 
Harold. How, Malet, if they be not 

honourable ! 
Malet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie ! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether thou 
wilt have thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether 

England 
Be shatter'd into fragments. 

Harold. News from England ? 

Malet. Morcar and Edwin have stirr'd 

up the Thanes 

Against thy brother Tostig's governance ; 

And all the North of Humber is one 

storm. 

Harold. I should be there, Malet, I 

should be there ! 
Malet. And Tostig in his own hall 
on suspicion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was his 

guest, 
Gamel, the son of Orm : and there be more 
As villainously slain. 

Harold. The wolf ! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More ? 

What more ? 
What do they say ? did Edward know of 
this? 
Malet. They say, his wife was know- 
ing and abetting. 
Harold. They say, his wife ! — To 
marry and have no husband 
Makes the wife fool. My God, I should 

be there. 
I'll hack my way to the sea. 

Malet. Thou canst not, Harold ; 

Our Duke is all between thee and the 

sea, 
Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; 
All passes block'd. Obey him, speak 

him fair, 
For he is only debonair to those 
That follow where he leads, but stark as 

death 
To those that cross him. — Look thou, 

here is Wulfnoth ! 
I leave thee to thy talk with him alone ; 



How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad 
for home ! \Exit Malet. 

Harold {mtitte7-mg). Go not to Nor- 
mandy — go not to Normandy ! 

Enter Wulfnoth 
Poor brother ! still a hostage ! 

Wtdfnoth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no more 
Make blush the maiden- white of our tall 

cliffs, 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself and 

hover 
Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky 
With free sea -laughter — never — save 

indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded 

Duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will ; 
But on conditions. Canst thou guess at 
them? 
Wulfnoth. Draw nearer, — I was in 
the corridor, 
I saw him coming with his brother Odo 
The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. 
Harold. They did thee wrong who 
made thee hostage ; thou 
Wast ever fearful, 

Wtdfnoth. And he spoke — I 

heard him — 
' This Harold is not of the royal blood, 
Can have no right to the crown,' and 

Odo said, 
' Thine is the right, for thine the might ; 

he is here, 
And yonder is thy keep.' 

Harold. No, Wulfnoth, no. 

Wnlfioth. And William laugh'd and 
swore that might was right. 
Far as he knew in this poor world of 

ours — 
' Marry, the Saints must go along with 

us, 
And, brother, we will find a way,' said 

he- 
Yea, yea, he would be king of England. 
Harold. Never ! 

Wtdfnoth. Yea, but thou must not this 
way answer him. 



666 



HAROLD 



Harold. Is it not better still to speak 

the truth ? 
Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt 
never hence nor I : 
For in the racing toward this golden goal 
He turns not right or left, but tramples 

flat 
Whatever thwarts him ; hast thou never 

heard 
His savagery at Alen9on, — the town 
Hung out raw hides along their walls, 

and cried 
' Work for the tanner. ' 

Harold. That had anger'd nic 

Had I been William. 

Wtdfnoth. Nay, but he had prisoners. 
He tore their eyes out, sliced their hands 

away. 
And flung them streaming o'er the battle- 
ments 
Upon the heads of those who walk'd 

within — 
O speak him fair, Harold, for thine own 
sake. 
Harold. Your Welshman says, ' The 
Truth against the World,' 
Much more the truth against mvself. 

Wtdfnoth. 'Thyself? 

But for my sake, oh brother ! oh ! for 
my sake ! 
Harold. Poor Wulfnoth ! do they not 

entreat thee well ? 
Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of my 
dungeon loom 
Across their lamps of revel, and beyond 
The merriest murmurs of their banquet 

clank 
The shackles that will bind me to the 
wall. 
Harold. Too fearful still ! 
Wtdfnoth. Oh no, no — speak 

him fair ! 
Call it to temporize ; and not to lie ; 
Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 
The man that hath to foil a murderous aim 
May, surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Nor ev'n for thy sake, brother, would I 
lie. 
Wtdfnoth. Then for thine Edith ? 



Harold. There thou prick'st me 

deep. 
Wulfnoth. And for our Mother Eng- 
land? 
Harold. Deeper still. 

Wtdfnoth. And deeper still the deep- 
down oubliette, 
Down thirty feet below the smiling day — 
In blackness — dogs' food thrown upon 

thy head. 
And over thee the suns arise and set, 
And the lark sings, the sweet stars come 

and go. 
And men are at their markets, in their 

fields. 
And woo their loves and have forgotten 

thee ; 
And thou art upright in thy living grave, 
Where there is barely room to shift thy 

side. 
And all thine England hath forgotten thee ; 
And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 
With all his Normans round him once 

again. 
Counts his old beads, and hath forgotten 

thee. 
Harold. Thou art of my blood, and 

so methinks, my boy. 
Thy fears infect . me beyond reason. 

Peace ! 
Wtdfnoth. And then our fiery Tostig, 

while thy hands 
Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians 

rise 
And hurl him from them, — I have heard 

the Normans 
Count upon this confusion — may he not 

make 
A league with William, so to bring him 

back? 
Harold. That lies within the shadow 

of the chance. 
Wtdfnoth. And like a river in flood 

thro' a burst dam 
Descends the ruthless Norman — our good 

King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — our 

helpless folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing, in their own 

blood — 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



667 



Harold. Wailing! not warring? Boy, 
thou hast forgotten 
That thou art EngUsh. 

Wulfnoth. Then our modest women — 
I know the Norman Ucense — thine own 
Edith— 
Harold. No more ! I will not hear 

thee — William comes. 
Wtilfiioth. I dare not well be seen in 
talk with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake with 
thee, 
\Moves aivay to the back of the stage. 

Enter William, Malet, and Officer 
Officer. We have the man that rail'd 

against thy birth. 
William. Tear out his tongue. 
Officer. He shall not rail again. 

He said that he should see confusion fall 
On thee and on thine house. 

William. Tear out his eyes. 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. It shall be done. 

\Exit Officer. 
William. Look not amazed, fair earl ! 
Better leave undone 
Than do by halves — tongueless and eye- 
less, prison'd — 
Harold. Better methinks have slain 

the man at once ! 
William. We have respect for man's 
immortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in war ; 
It frights the traitor more to maim and 
blind. 
Harold. In mine own land I should 
have scorn'd the man, 
Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him go. 
William. And let him go? To slander 
thee again ! 
Yet in thine own land in thy father's day 
They blinded my young kinsman, Alfred 

—ay, 
Some said it was thy father's deed. 

Harold. They lied. 

William. But thou and he — whom at 
thy word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I free 
From this foul charge — 



Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 
By oath and compurgation from the 

charge. 
The king, the lords, the people clear'd 
him of it. 
William. But thou and he drove our 
good Normans out 
P'rom England, and this rankles in us yet. 
Archbishop Robert hardly scaped with life. 
Harold. Archbishop Robert ! Robert 
the Archbishop ! 
Robert of Jumieges, he that — 

Malet. Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold. Count ! if there sat within 

the Norman chair 

A ruler all for England — one who fill'd 

All offices, all bishopricks with English — 

We could not move from Dover to the 

H umber 
Saving thro' Norman bishopricks — I say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who 

should drive 
The stranger to the fiends ! 

William. Wliy, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise withal ! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Norman 

lords 
Hate thee for this, and press upon me — 

saying ^ 

God and the sea have given thee to our 

hands — 
To plunge thee into life -long prison 

here : — 
Yet I hold out against them, as I may, 
Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they 

should revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my cause ; 
I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. 
Harold. I am doubly bound to thee 

... if this be so. 
William. And I would bind thee 
more, and would myself 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 

Harold. It may be. 

William. Why then the heir of 
England, who is he ? 



668 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



Harold. The Atheling is nearest to 

the throne. 
William. But sickly, sHght, half- 
witted and a child. 
Will England have him king ? 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward 

not pronounced his heir ? 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here in 

Normandy, 
He loved us and we him, because we 

found him 
A Norman of the Normans. 

Harold. So did we. 

William. A gentle, gracious, pure and 

saintly man ! 
And grateful to the hand that shielded him. 
He promised that if ever he were king 
In England, he would give his kingly voice 
To me as his successor. Knowest thou 

this? 
Harold. I learn it now. 
William. Thou knowest I am his 

cousin, 
And that my wife descends from Alfred ? 
Harold. Ay. 

William. Who hath a better claim 

then to the crown 
So that ye will not crown the Atheling ? 
Hajvld. None that I know ... if 

that but hung upon 
King Edward's will. 

William. Wilt thoti. uphold my 

claim ? 
Malet {aside to Harold). Be careful of 

thine answer, my good friend. 
Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh ! 

Harold, for my sake and for thine 

own ! 
Harold. Ay ... if the king have 

not revoked his promise. 
William. But hath he done it then ? 
Harold. Not that I know. 

William. Good, good, and thou wilt 

help me to the crown ? 
Harold. Ay . . . if the Witan will 

consent to this. 
William. Thou art the mightiest voice 

in England, man, 



Thy voice will lead the Witan — shall I 
have it? 
Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh ! 
Harold, if thou love thine Edith, 
ay. 
Ha7-old. Ay, if — 
Malet {aside to Harold). Thine ' ifs ' 

will sear thine eyes out — ay. 
William. I ask thee, wilt thou help 
me to the crown ? 
And I will make thee my great Earl of 

Earls, 
Foremost in England and in Normandy ; 
Thou shalt be verily king — all but the 

name — 
For I shall most sojourn in Normandy ; 
And thou be my vice-king in England. 
Speak. 
Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Ay, 
brother — for the sake of England 
—ay. 
Harold. My lord — 
Malet {aside to Harold). Take heed 

now. 
Harold. Ay. 

William. I am content, 

For thou art truthful, and thy word thy 

bond. 

To-morrow will we ride with thee to 

Harfleur. \Exit William. 

Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, one 

life with thee, 

And even as I should bless thee saving 

mine, 

I thank thee now for having saved thyself. 

lExit Malet. 

Harold. For having lost myself to save 

myself. 

Said ' ay' when I meant ' no,' lied like 

a lad 
That dreads the pendent scourge, said 

' ay ' for ' no ' ! 
Ay ! No ! — he hath not bound me by an 

oath — 
Is ' ay ' an oath ? is ' ay ' strong as an 

oath? 
Or is it the same sin to break my word 
As break mine oath ? He call'd my word 

my bond ! 
He is a liar who knows I am a liar, 



SCENE II 



.HAROLD 



669 



And makes believe that he believes my 
word — 

The crime be on his head — not bounden 
— no. 
{Suddenly doors are flung open, dis- 
covering in an inner hall Count 
William in his state robes, seated 
upon his throne, between two 
Bishops, Odo of Bayeux being 
one : in the centre of the hall an 
ark covered with cloth of gold; ajid 
on either side of it the Norinan 
barons. 

Enter a Jailor before William's throne 

Williajn {to Jailor). Knave, hast thou 

let thy prisoner scape ? 
Jailor. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have hopt 

away, 
Yea, some familiar spirit must have help'd 
him. 
William. Woe knave to thy familiar 
and to thee ! 
Give me thy keys. [They fall clashing. 
Nay let them lie. Stand there and 
wait my will. 

[ The Jailor stands aside. 
William {to Harold). Hast thou such 

trustless jailors in thy North ? 
Harold. We have few prisoners in 
mine earldom there, 
JO less chance for false keepers. 

William. We have heard 

Of thy just, mild, and equal governance ; 
Honour to thee ! thou art perfect in all 

honour ! 
Thy naked word thy bond ! confirm it 

now 
Before our gather'd Norman baronage. 
For they will not believe thee — as I 
believe. 
{Descends from his throne and stands 
by the ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our bond ! 
{Beckons to Harold, rvho advances. 

Enter Malet behind him 
Lay thou thy hand upon this golden pall ! 
Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius 



Woven into the gold. Swear thou on this ! 
Harold. What should I swear ? Wliy 

should I swear on this ? 
William {savagely). Swear thou to 
help me to the crown of England. 
Malet {whispering Harold). My friend, 
thou hast gone too far to palter 
now. 
Wulfnoth {whisperingY{.2iXoWC). Swear 
thou to-day, to-morrow is thine 
own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England . . . 
According as King Edward promises. 
William. Thou must swear absolutely, 

noble Earl. 
Malet {whispering). Delay is death to 

thee, ruin to England. 
Wtilfnoth {whispering). Swear, dear- 
est brother, I beseech thee, swear ! 
Harold {putting his hand on thejezvel). 
I swear to help thee to the crown 
of England. 
William. Thanks, truthful Earl ; I 
did not doubt thy word, 
But that my barons might believe thy 

word, 
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy 
When thou art home in England, with 

thine own, 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of thy 

word, 
I made thee swear. — Show him by whom 
he hath sworn. 
{The two Bishops advance, and raise 
the cloth of gold. The bodies and 
bones of Saints are seen lying in 
the ark. 
The holy bones of all the Canonised 
From all the holiest shrines in Normandy ! 
Harold. Horrible ! 

[ They let the cloth fall again. 
William. Ay, for thou hast sworn an 
oath 
Which, if not kept, would make the hard 

earth rive 
To the very Devil's horns, the bright sky 

cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her 
hosts 



670 



HAROLD 



ACT III 



Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of 

plague 
Thro' all your cities, blast your infants, 

dash 
The torch of war among your standing 

corn, 
Dabble your hearths with your own blood. 

— Enough ! 
Thou wilt not break it ! I, the Count — 

the King — 
Thy friend — am grateful for thine honest 

oath. 
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, now. 
But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 
For I shall rule according to your laws. 
And make your ever -jarring Earldoms 

move 
To music and in order — Angle, Jute, 
Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a 

throne 
Out-towering hers of France . . . The 

wind is fair 
For England now . . . To-night we will 

be merry. 
To-morrow will I ride with thee to 

Harfleur. 
[Exeunt William and all the Noj-man 

barons.^ etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry — 

and to-morrow — 
Juggler and bastard — bastard — he hates 

that most — 
William the tanner's bastard ! Would 

he heard me ! 
O God, that I were in some wide, waste 

field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and 

him 
To spatter his brains ! Why let earth 

rive, gulf in 
These cursed Normans — yea and mine 

own self. 
Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that 

I may say 
Ev'n to their faces, ' If ye side with 

William 
Ye are not noble.' How their pointed 

fingers 
Glared at me ! Am I Harold, Harold, 

son 



Of our great Godwin ? Lo ! I touch 

mine arms. 
My limbs — they are not mine — they are 

a liar's — 
I mean to be a liar — I am not bound — 
Stigand shall give me absolution for it — 
Did the chest move ? did it move ? I am 

utter craven ! 

Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou 

hast betray 'd me ! 
Wttlfnoth. Forgive me, brother, I 
will live here and die. 

Enter Page 

Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits thee 

at the banquet. 
Harold. Where they eat dead men's 

flesh, and drink their blood. 
Page. My lord — 
Harold. I know your Norman cookery 

is so spiced. 
It masks all this. 

Page. My lord ! thou art white 

as death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. 

Am I so white ? 
Thy Duke will seem the darker. Hence, 

I follow. {Exeunt. 

ACT III 

SCENE I.— The King's Palace. 
London 

King Edward dying on a couch, and by 
him standing the QuEEN, HAROLD, 
Archbishop Stigand, Gurth, 
Leofwin, Archbishop Aldred, 
Aldwyth, and Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there? 
If this be death, 
Then our great Council wait to crown 

thee King — 
Come hither, I have a power ; 

[To Harold. 
They call me near, for I am close to thee 
And England — I, old shrivell'd Stigand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead tree, 

1 have a power ! 



SCENE I 



■HAROLD 



671 



See here this little key about my neck ! 
There lies a treasure buried down in Ely : 
If e'er the Norman grow too hard for 

thee, 
Ask me for this at thy most need, son 

Harold, 
At thy most need — not sooner. 

Harold. So I will. 

Stigand. Red gold — a hundred purses 

— yea, and more ! 
If thou canst make a wholesome use of 

these 
To chink against the Norman, I do 

believe 
My old crook'd spine would bud out two 

young wings 
To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father ! 

Thou art English, Edward too is English 

now, 
He hath clean repented of his Normanism. 
Stigand. Ay, as the libertine repents 

who cannot 
Make done undone, when thro' his dying 

sense 
Shrills 'lost thro' thee.' They have 

built their castles here ; 
Our priories are Norman ; the Norman 

adder 
Hath bitten us ; we are poison'd : our 

dear England 
Is demi-Norman. He ! — 

[^Pointmg to King Edward, sleeping. 
Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 
That I might rest as calmly ! Look at 

him — 
The rosy face, and long down -silvering 

beard, 
The brows unwrinkled as a summer 

mere. — 
Stigand. A summer mere with sudden 

wreckful gusts 
From a side-gorge. Passionless ? How 

he flamed 
When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung 

him, nay. 
He fain had calcined all Northumbria 
To one black ash, but that thy patriot 

passion 



Siding with our great Council against 

Tostig, 
Out-passion'd his ! Holy ? ay, ay, for- 
sooth, 
A conscience for his own soul, not his 

realm ; 
A twilight conscience lighted thro' a 

chink ; 
Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun to be. 
When all the world hath learnt to speak 

the truth, 
And lying were self-murder by that state 
Which was the exception. 

Harold. That sun may God speed ! 
Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the 

cloud off! 
Harold. Can I, father? 

Our Tostig parted cursing me and Eng- 
land ; 
Our sister hates us for his banishment ; 
He hath gone to kindle Norway against 

England, 
And Wulfnoth is alone in Normandy. 
For when I rode with William down to 

Harfleur, 
'Wulfnoth is sick,' he said ; 'he cannot 

follow ' ; 
Then with that friendly-fiendly smile of 

his, 
' We have learnt to love him, let him a 

little longer 
Remain a hostage for the loyalty 
Of Godwin's house.' As far as touches 

Wulfnoth 
I that so prized plain word and naked 

truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Leofwin. Good brother, 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd. 
Of all the lies that ever men have lied, 
Thine is the pardonablest. 

Harold. May be so ! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool 
To think it can be otherwise than so. 
Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved 

thee : dost thou scorn me, 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium, 
From one whom they dispoped ? 

Harold. No, Stigand, no ! 



672 



HAROLD 



ACT III 



Stigand. Is naked truth actable in 

true life ? 
I have heard a saying of thy father 

Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly true, 
Men would but take him for the craftier 

liar. 
Leofivin. Be men less delicate than 

the Devil himself? 
I thought that naked Truth would shame 

the Devil 
The Devil is so modest. 

Gurih. He never said it ! 

Leofwin. Be thou not stupid-honest, 

brother Gurth ! 
Harold. Better to be a liar's dog, and 

hold 
My master honest, than believe that lying 
And ruling men are fatal twins that 

cannot 
Move one without the other. Edward 

wakes ! — 
Dazed — he hath seen a vision. 

Edtvard. The green tree ! 

Then a great Angel past along the highest 
Crying 'the doom of England,' and at 

once 
He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword 
Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the tree 
From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd 

it from him 
Three fields away, and then he dash'd 

and drench'd, 
He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with 

human blood. 
And brought the sunder'd tree again, and 

set it 
Straight on the trunk, that thus baptized 

in blood 
Grew ever high and higher, beyond my 

seeing. 
And shot out sidelong boughs across the 

deep 
That dropt themselves, and rooted in far 

isles 
Beyond my seeing : and the great Angel 

rose 
And past again along the highest crying 
' The doom of England ! ' — Tostig, raise 

my head ! \^Falls back senseless. 



Harold (raising hini). Let Harold 

serve for Tostig ! 

Queejt. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig ! 

Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low ! 

The sickness of our saintly king, for 

whom 
My prayers go up as fast as my tears fall, 
I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself 
From lack of Tostig — thou hast banish'd 
him. 
Harold. Nay — but the council, and 

the king himself. 
Queen. Thou hatest him, hatest him. 
Harold [coldly). Ay — Stigand, 

unriddle 
This vision, canst thou ? 

Stigand. Dotage ! 

Edward [starting up). It is finish'd. 
I have built the Lord a house — the Lord g 

hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord a 

house — 
Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden 

cherubim 
With twenty -cubit wings from wall to 

wall — 
I have built the Lord a house — sing, 

Asaph ! clash 
The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trumpet, 

priest ! 
Fall, cloud, and fill the house — lo ! my 

two pillars, 
Jachin and Boaz ! — 

{^Seeing Harold and Gurth. 

Harold, Gurth, — where am I ? 

Where is the charter of our Westminster ? 

Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, 

upon thy bed. 
Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, 
sign it, Stigand, Aldred ! 
Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, and 

Leofwin, 
Sign it, my queen ! 

All. We have sign'd it. 

Edward. It is finish'd ! 

The kingliest Abbey in all Christian 

lands, 
The lordliest, loftiest minster ever built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



673 



Let me be buried there, and all our kings, 
And all our just and wise and holy men 
That shall be born hereafter. It is 

finish'd ! 
Hast thou had absolution for thine oath ? 
[Z;? Harold. 
Harold. Stigand hath given me abso- 
lution for it. 
Edward. Stigand is not canonical 
enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Norman 
Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be there 
no Saints of England 
To help us from their brethren yonder ? 
Edward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Nor- 

manland 

Are mightier than our own. Ask it of 

Aldred. yTo Harold. 

Aldred. It shall be granted him, my 

king ; for he 

Who vows a vow to strangle his own 

mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking it. 
Edward. O friends, I shall not over- 
live the day. 
Stigand. Why then the throne is 
empty. Who inherits ? 
For tho' we be not bound by the king's voice 
In making of a king, yet the king's voice 
Is much toward his making. Who 

inherits ? 
Edgar the Atheling ? 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him : he hath served me : none 

but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse is 

on him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed 

bones ; 
He did not mean to keep his vow. 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edward. There spake Godwin, 

Who hated all the Normans ; but their 

Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith. Oh ! my lord, my king ! 

He knew not whom he sware by. 



Edzvard. Yea, I know 

He knew not, but those heavenly ears 

have heard, 
Their curse is on him ; wilt thou bring 

another, 
Edith, upon his head ? 

Edith. No, no, not I. 

Edzvard. Why then, thou must not 

wed him. 
Ha7-old. Wherefore, wherefore ? 

Edward. O son, when thou didst tell 

me of thine oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise given 
To yon fox-lion. I did not dream then 
I should be king. — My son, the Saints 

are virgins ; 
They love the white rose of virginity, 
The cold, white lily blowing in her cell : 
I have been myself a virgin ; and I sware 
To consecrate my virgin here to heaven — 
The silent, cloister 'd, solitary life, 
A life of life-long prayer against the curse 
That lies on thee and England. 

Harold. No, no, no. 

Edward. Treble denial of the tongue 

of flesh, 
Like Peter's when he fell, and thou wilt 

have 
To wail for it like Peter. O my son ! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all 

promises 
Made in our agony for help from heaven ? 
Son, there is one who loves thee : and a 

wife. 
What matters who, so she be serviceable 
In all obedience, as mine own hath been : 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 

[Layiitg his hand on the Queen's head. 
Queen. Bless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the rest. 
My banish'd Tostig. 

Edward. All the sweet Saints 

bless him ! 
Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he 

comes ! 
And let him pass unscathed ; he loves 

me, Harold ! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among us. 
Who follow'd me for love ! and dear son, 

swear 

2 X 



674 



HAROLD 



ACT in 



When thou art king, to see my solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd. 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have 
sworn 
Not to swear falsely twice. 

Edwai'd. Thou wilt not swear ? 

Harold. I cannot. 

Edtuard. Then on thee remains 

the curse, 
Harold, if thou embrace her : and on thee, 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

{The King siooons ; Y.d.iXh falls and 
kneels by the couch. 
Stigand. He hath swoon'd ! 

Death ? . . . no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith ! 

Aldred. Confuse her not ; she hath 
begun 
Her life-long prayer for thee. 

.Aldwyih. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have sworn. 

Harold. For thine own pleasure ? 

Aldwyth. No, but to please our dying 
king, and those 
Who make thy good their own — all 
England, Earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have 
sworn. Our holy king 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy 

Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man, 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son ! 

That knowledge made him all the care- 
fuller 
To find a means whereby the curse might 

glance 
From thee and England. 

Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the 

mightier is the prayer ; 

The more the love, the more acceptable 

The sacrifice of both your loves to heaven. 

No sacrifice to heaven, no help from 

heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all the 
world. 



And sacrifice there must be, for the king 
Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, and 

seen 
A shadowing horror ; there are signs in 
heaven — 
Harold. Your comet came and went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth ! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill ? 

Harold. I know all Sussex ; 

A good entrenchment for a perilous hour ! 

Aldred. Pray God that come not 

suddenly ! There is one 

Who passing by that hill three nights 

ago— 
He shook so that he scarce could out 

with it — 
Heard, heard — 

Harold. The wind in his hair ? 

Aldred. A ghostly horn 

Blowing continually, and faint battle- 
hymns, 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans of 

men ; 
And dreadful shadows strove upon the 

hill, 
And dreadful lights crept up from out 

the marsh — 
Corpse - candles gliding over nameless 
graves — 
Harold. At Senlac ? 
Aldred. Senlac. 

Edivard {waking). Senlac! Sanguelac, 
The Lake of Blood ! 

Stigajid. This lightning before death 

Plays on the word, — and Normanizes too ! 

Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 

Edward. Thou uncanonical fool, 

Wilt thou play with the thunder ? North 

and South 
Thunder together, showers of blood are 

blown 
Before a never-ending blast, and hiss 
Against the blaze they cannot quench — a 

lake, 
A sea of blood — we are drown'd in blood 

—for God 
Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has 

drawn the bow — 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! the 
arrow ! {Dies. 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



675 



Stigand. It is the arrow of death in 
his own heart — 
And our great Council wait to crown thee 
Kinor. 



SCENE II.— In the Garden. The 
King's House near London 

Edith. Crown'd, crown'd and lost, 
crown'd King — and lost to me ! 

{Singing) 
Two young lovers in winter weather, 

None to guide them, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather ; 
Night, as black as a raven's feather ; 
Both were lost and found together. 

None beside them. 

That is the burthen of it — lost and found 

Together in the cruel river Swale 

A hundred years ago ; and there's another, 

Lost, lost, the light of day, 

To which the lover answers lovingly 

' I am beside thee.' 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 

' Love, I will guide thee.' 
Whither, O whither ? into the river. 
Where we two may be lost together. 
And lost for ever ? ' Oh ! never, 

oh ! never, 
Tho' we be lost and be found together. ' 

Some think they loved within the pale 

forbidden 
By Holy Church : but who shall say ? 

the truth 
Was lost in that fierce North, where they 

were lost, 
Where all good things are lost, where 

Tostig lost 
The good hearts of his people. It is 

Harold ! 

Enter Harold 

Harold the King ! 

Harold. Call me not King, but 

Harold. 
Edith. Nay, thou art King ! 



Harold. Thine, thine, or King 

or churl ! 
My girl, thou hast been weeping : turn 

not thou 
Thy face away, but rather let me be 
King of the moment to thee, and command 
That kiss my due when subject, which 

will make 
My kingship kinglier to me than to reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not. 

Lest I should yield it, and the second 

curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou be 

only 
King of the moment over England. 
. Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I have 

lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' mine 

oath, 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not 

thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's dream ; 
Stigand believed he knew not what he 

spake. 
Oh God I I cannot help it, but at times 
They seem to me too narrow, all the faiths 
Of this grown world of ours, whose baby 

eye 
Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, I fear 
This curse, and scorn it. But a little 

light !— 
And on it falls the shadow of the priest ; 
Heaven yield us more ! for better, 

Woden, all 
Our cancell'd warrior - gods, our grim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at peace 
The Holiest of our Holiest one should be 
This William's fellow-tricksters ; — better 

die 
Than credit this, for death is death, or else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — thou 

art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in my 

kiss, 
And more than sister in thine own. 



676 



HAROLD 



ACT III 



Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — 
' Love for a whole Hfe long ' 
When was that sung ? 

Edith. Here to the nightingales. 

Harold. Their anthems of no church, 
how sweet they are ! 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to 

cross 
Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are but of spring, 

They fly the winter change — not so with 

us — 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 

Beyond all change and in the eternal 

distance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true, 

They change their mates. 

Ha7-old. Do they ? I did not know it, 
Edith. They say thou art to wed the 

Lady Aldwyth. 
Harold. They say, they say. 
Edith. If this be politic, 

And well for thee and England — and for 

her — 
Care not for me who love thee. 

Giirth {calling). Harold, Harold ! 

Harold. The voice of Gurth ! {Enter 
GuRTH.) Good even, my good 
brother ! 
Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come ! Our 
hapless brother, Tostig — 
He, and the giant King of Norway, 

Harold 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, 

Orkney, 
Are landed North of Humber, and in a 

field 
So packt with carnage that the dykes and 

brooks 
Were bridged and damm'd with dead, 

have overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well then, we must 

fight. 
How blows the wind ? 



Gurth. Against St. Valery 

And William. 

Harold. Well then, we will to the 

North. 
Gzirth. Ay, but worse news : this 
William sent to Rome, 
Swearing thou swarest falsely by his 

Saints : 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hilde- 

brand 
His master, heard him, and have sent him 

back 
A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter, and all France, all Burgundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom is raised against 

thee ; 
He hath cursed thee, and all those who 

fight for thee. 
And given thy realm of England to the 
bastard. 
Harold. Ha ! ha ! 
Edith, Oh ! laugh not ! . . . Strange 
and ghastly in the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thunder- 
cloud 
That lours on England — laughter ! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old 

Rome 
Before a Pope was born, when that which 

reign'd 
Call'd itself God. — A kindly rendering 

Of ' Render unto Caesar.' The 

Good Shepherd ! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurth. They have taken York, 

Harold. The Lord was God and came 

as man — the Pope 

Is man and comes as God. — York taken? 

Gurth. Yea, 

Tostig hath taken York ! 

Harold. To York then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been braver, I had better 

braved 
All — but I love thee and thou me — and 

that 
Remains beyond all chances and all 

churches, 
And that thou knowest. 

Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. 



ACT IV 



HAROLD 



^11 



It burns my hand — a curse to thee and me. 
I dare not wear it. 

{^Proffers Harold the ring, which he takes. 

Harold. But I dare. God with thee ! 

[Exetint Harold and Gurth. 

Edith. The King hath cursed him, if 

he marry me ; 
The Pope hath cursed him, marry me or 

no ! 
God help me ! I know nothing — can but 

pray 
For Harold — pray, pray, pray — no help 

but prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron world, 
And touches Him that made it. 



ACT IV 

SCENE I. — In Northumbria 

Archbishop Aldred, Morcar,Edwin, 
and Forces. Enter Harold. The 
standard of the golden Dragon of 
Wessex preceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people sullen 
from defeat ? 
Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the 

Humber, 
No voice to greet it. 

Edwin. Let not our great king 

Believe us sullen — only shamed to the 

quick 
Before the king — as having been so bruised 
By Harold, king of Norway ; but our help 
Is Harold, king of England. Pardon us, 

thou ! 
Our silence is our reverence for the king ! 
H[arold. Earl of the Mercians ! if the 
truth be gall. 
Cram me not thou with honey, when our 

good hive 
Needs every sting to save it. 

Voices. Aldwyth ! Aldwyth ! 

Harold. Wliy cry thy people on thy 

sister's name ? 
Morcar. She hath won upon our 
people thro' her beauty, 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Aldwyth ! 



Harold. They shout as they would 

have her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath followed with our 

host, and suffer'd all. 
Harold. What would ye, men ? 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian 

crown. 
And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Saxon carles 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little ! we are Danes, 

Who conquer'd what we walk on, our 

own field. 

Harold. They have been plotting here ! 

\Aside. 

Voice. He calls us little ! 

Harold. The kingdoms of this world 

began with little, 

A hill, a fort, a city — that reach'd a hand 

Down to the field beneath it, * Be thou 

mine,' 
Then to the next, ' Thou also ! ' If the 
field 



Cried out ' I am mine 



another hill 



Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an Empire. 

Voice. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon : 7f/^are Danes ! 

Harold. My mother is a Dafte, and I 
am English ; 
There is a pleasant fable in old books. 
Ye take a stick, and break it ; bind a score 
All in one faggot, snap it over knee, 
Ye cannot. 

Voice. Hear King Harold ! he 

says true ! 

Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 

Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman ? 

Voices. No ! 

Harold. Snap not the faggot-band then. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, but thou art not kingly, 
only grandson 
To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. 

Harold. This old Wulfnoth 

Would take me on his knees and tell me 

tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 



678 



HAROLD 



ACT IV 



Who drove you Danes ; and yet he held 

that Dane, 
Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be 

all 
One England, for this cow-herd, like my 

father, 
Who shook the Norman scoundrels off 

the throne, 
Had in him kingly thoughts — a king of 

men. 
Not made but born, like the great king 

of all, 
A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for 

mine own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

Voice. Thou art Tostig's brother, 

Wlio wastes the land. 

Harold. This brother comes to save 
Your land from waste ; I saved it once 

before. 
For when your people banish'd Tostig 

hence, 
And Edward would have sent a host 

against you. 
Then I, who loved my brother, bad the 

king 
Who doted on him, sanction your decree 
Of Tostig's banishment, and choice of 

Morcar, 
To help the realm from scattering. 

Voice. King ! thy brother. 

If one may dare to speak the truth, was 

wrong'd. 
Wild was he, born so : but the plots 

against him 
Had madden'd tamer men. 

Moj'car. Thou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig's treasure- 
house 
And slew two hundred of his following. 
And now, when Tostig hath come back 

with power. 
Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday. Can ye 

not 
Be brethren ? Godwin still at feud with 

Alfgar, 



And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots 

and feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday ! 

Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing ; not his fault, if our two 

houses 
Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth ! 
Harold. Again ! Morcar ! Edwin ! 

Wliat do they mean ? 
Edwin. So the good king would deign 
to lend an ear 
Not overscornful, we might chance — per- 
chance — 
To guess their meaning. 

Morcar. Thine own meaning, Harold, 
To make all England one, to close all feuds, 
Mixing our bloods, that thence a king 

may rise 
Half-Godwin and half- Alfgar, one to rule 
All England beyond question, beyond 
quarrel. 
Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here 

among the people ? 
Morcar. Who knows what sows itself 
among the people ? 
A goodly flower at times. 

Harold. The Queen of Wales ? 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her 
To hate me ; I have heard she hates me. 
Moi'car. No ! 

For I can swear to that, but cannot swear 
That these will follow thee against the 

Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against my 
house ? 
Edwin. The king can scarcely dream 
that we, who know 
His prowess in the mountains of the West, 
Should care to plot against him in the 
North. 
Morcar. Who dares arraign us, king, 

of such a plot ? 

Harold. Yeheard one witness even now. 

Morcar. The craven ! 

There is a faction risen again for Tostig, 

Since Tostig came with Norway — fright 

not love. 



HAROLD 



679 



Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, 
if I yield, 
Follow against the Norseman ? 

Morcar. Surely, surely ! 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye 
upon oath, 
Help us against the Norman ? 

Morcar. With good will ; 

Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, king. 
Harold. Where is thy sister ? 
Morcai'. Somewhere hard at hand. 
Call and she comes. 

[One goes out, then enter Aldwyth. 
Harold. I doubt not but thou knowest 
Why thou art summon'd. 

Aldzvyth. Why ? — I stay with these. 
Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out alone. 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown thine husband, unqueen 

thee? 
Didst thou not love thine husband ? 

Aldwyth. Oh ! my lord, 

The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage 

king- 
That was, my lord, a match of policy. 

Harold. Was it ? 

I knew him brave : he loved his land : 

he fain 
Had made her great : his finger on her 

harp 
(I heard him more than once) had in it 

Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills : had I 

been his, 
I had been all Welsh. 

Aldwyth. Oh, ay — all Welsh — and yet 
I saw thee drive him up his hills — and 

women 
Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, the 

more ; 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh ! good Morcar, speak for 

us. 
His conqueror conquer'd Aldwyth. 

Harold. Goodly news ! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Since 
Griffyth's head was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 

Harold. I had rather 



She would have loved her husband. 

Aldwyth, Aldwyth, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing where 

I love ? 
Aldwyth. I can, my lord, for mine 

own sake, for thine. 
For England, for thy poor white dove, 

who flutters 
Between thee and the porch, but then 

would find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one, who 

cannot love again ? 
Aldwyth. Full hope have I that love 

will answer love. 
Harold. Then in the name of the 

great God, so be it ! 
Come, Aldred, join our hands before the 

hosts. 
That all may see. 

[Aldred joins the hands of Harold 

and Aldwyth and blesses them. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Aldwyth ! 
Harold. Set forth our golden Dragon, 

let him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales ! 
Advance our Standard of the Warrior, 
Dark among gems and gold ; and thou, 

brave banner. 
Blaze like a night of fatal stars on those 
Who read their doom and die. 
Where lie the Norsemen ? on the Der- 

went ? ay 
At Stamford-bridge. 
Morcar, collect thy men ; Edwin, my 

friend — 
Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 
Last night King Edward came to me in 

dreams — 
The rosy face and long down-silvering 

beard — 
He told me I should conquer : — 
I am no woman to put faith in dreams. 

[To his army) 
Last night King Edward came to me in 

dreams. 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward ! Forward ! 

Harold and Holy Cross ! 

Aldzvyth. The day is won ! 



68o 



HAROLD 



SCENE II. — A Plain. Before the 
Battle of Stamford-Bridge 

Harold and his Guard 

Harold. Who is it comes this way ? 
Tostig? {Enter TosTiG with a 
small force.) O brother, 
What art thou doing here ? 

Tostig. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 

Harold. I could take and slay thee. 
Thou art in arms against us. 

Tostig. Take and slay me, 

For Edward loved me. 

Harold. Edward bad me spare thee. 
Tostig. I hate King Edward, for he 
join'd with thee 
To drive me outlaw'd. Take and slay 

me, I say, 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee, 

Free thee or slay thee, Norway will have 

war ; 
No man would strike with Tostig, save 

for Norway. 
Thou art nothing in thine England, save 

for Norway, 
Who loves not thee but war. What dost 

thou here. 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into blood? 
Tostig. She hath wean'd me from it 
with such bitterness. 
I come for mine own Earldom, my 

Northumbria ; 
Thou hast given it to the enemy of our 
house. 
Harold. Northumbria threw thee off, 
she will not have thee. 
Thou hast misused her : and, O crowning 

crime ! 
Hast murder'd thine own guest, the son 

of Orm, 
Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fool ! 

He drawl'd and prated so, I smote him 

suddenly, 
I knew not what I did. He held with 

Morcar. — 
I hate myself for all things that I do. 



Harold. And Morcar holds with us. 
Come back with him. 
Know what thou dost ; and we may find 

for thee. 
So thou be chasten'd by thy banishment, 
Some easier earldom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then ? 

He looks for land among us, he and his. 
Harold. Seven feet of English land, 
or something more. 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. That is noble ! 

That sounds of Godwin. 

Ha7'old. Come thou back, and be 

Once more a son of Godwin. 

Tostig {tnrns away). O brother, 
brother, 

Harold— 

Harold {laying his hand on Tostig's 

shoulder). Nay then, come thou 

back to us ! 
Tostig {after a pause turning to him). 

Never shall any man say that I, 

that Tostig 
Conjured the mightier Harold from his 

North 
To do the battle for me here in England, 
Then left him for the meaner ! thee ! — 
Thou hast no passion for the House of 

Godwin — 
Thou hast but cared to make thyself a 

king— 
Thou hast sold me for a cry. — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in the 

Council — 

1 hate thee, and despise thee, and defy 

thee. 
Farewell for ever ! {^Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-bridge ! 

SCENE III 

After the Battle of Stamford- 
Bridge. Banquet 

Harold and Aldw^yth. Gurth, 
Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin, and 
other Earls and Thanes. 

Voices. Hail ! Harold ! Aldwyth ! 
hail, bridegroom and bride ! 



SCENE III 



HAROLD 



681 



Aldivyth {talking with Harold). An- 
swer them thou ! 
Is this our marriage - banquet ? Would 

the wines 
Of wedding had been dash'd into the cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy glory 
Been drunk together ! these poor hands 

but sew, 
Spin, broider — would that they were 

man's to have held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 

Harold. There was a moment 

When being forced aloof from all my 

guard, 
And striking at Hardrada and his mad- 
men 
I had wish'd for any weapon. 

Aldwyih. Why art thou sad ? 

Harold. I have lost the boy who 
play'd at ball with me, 
With whom I fought another fight than 

this 
Of Stamford-bridge. 

Aldwyth. Ay ! ay ! thy victories 

Over our own poor Wales, when at thy 

side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No — the childish fist 

That cannot strike again. 

Aldwyth. Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thou let so many Norsemen 

hence ? 
Thy fierce forekings had clench'd their 

pirate hides 
To the bleak church doors, like kites 
upon a barn. 
Harold. Is there so great a need to 

tell thee why? 
Aldwyth. Yea, am I not thy wife ? 
Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth ! 

Bridegroom and bride ! 

Aldwyth. Answer them! [Tl? Harold. 

Harold {to all). Earls and Thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of my 

bride ! 
Earls, Thanes, and all our countrymen ! 

the day. 
Our day beside the Derwent will not shine 
Less than a star among the goldenest hours 
Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son, 



Or Athelstan, or English Ironside 

Who fought with Knut, or Knut who 

coming Dane 
Died English. Every man about his king 
Fought like a king ; the king like his own 

man. 
No better ; one for all, and all for one, 
One soul ! and therefore have we shatter'd 

back 
The hugest wave from Norseland ever 

yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his carrion 

croak 
From the gray sea for ever. Many are 

gone — 
Drink to the dead who died for us, the 

living 
Who fought and would have died, but 

happier lived. 
If happier be to live ; they both have life 
In the large mouth of England, till her 

voice 
Die with the world. Hail — hail ! 

Morcar. May all invaders perish like 

Hardrada ! 
All traitors fail like Tostig ! 

\^All drink but Harold. 
Aldwyth. Thy cup's full ! 

Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig 

cover it. 
Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, 

him 
Reverently we buried. Friends, had I 

been here, 
Without too large self-lauding I must hold 
The sequel had been other than his league 
With Norway, and this battle. Peace 

be with him ! 
He was not of the worst. If there be 

those 
At banquet in this hall, and hearing me — 
For there be those I fear who prick 'd the 

lion 
To make him spring, that sight of Danish 

blood 
Might serve an end not English — peace 

with them 
Likewise, \ithey can be at peace with what 
God gave us to divide us from the wolf ! 



682 



HAROLD 



ACT IV 



Aldwyth {aside to Harold). Make not 
our Morcar sullen : it is not 
wise. 
Harold. Hail to the living who fought, 

the dead who fell ! 
Voices. Hail, hail ! 
First Thane. How ran that answer 
which King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd 
for England ? 
Leofwin. ' Seven feet of English earth, 
or something more. 
Seeing he is a giant I ' 

First Thane. Then for the bastard 
Six feet and nothing more ! 

Leofiuin. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By St. Edmund 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep to the 

man 
Here by dead Norway without dream or 
dawn ! 
Second Thane. What is he bragging 
still that he will come 
To thrust our Harold's throne from under 

him ? 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill 

crying 
To a mountain ' Stand aside and room 
for me ! ' 
First Thane. Let him come ! let him 
come. Here's to him, sink or 
swim ! \prinks. 

Second Thane. God sink him ! 
First Thane. Cannot hands which 
had the strength 
To shove that stranded iceberg off our 

shores, 
And send the shatter'd North again to 

sea. 
Scuttle his cockle-shell ? Wliat's Brun- 

anburg 
To Stamford -bridge ? a war-crash, and so 

hard. 
So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. 

Thor— 
By God, we thought him dead — but our 

old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and woke 
and came 



Among us again, and mark'd the sons of 

those 
Who made this Britain England, break 

the North : 

Mark'd how the war -axe swang, 
Heard how the war-horn sang, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang. 
Heard how the shield-wall rang, 
Iron on iron clang. 
Anvil on hammer bang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, 

hammer on anvil. Old dog, 
Thou art drunk, old dog ! 

First Thane. Too drunk to fight with 

thee ! 
Second Thane. Fight thou with thine 

own double, not with me. 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

First Thane. Down with William ! 
Third Thane. The washerwoman's 

brat! 
Fourth Thane. The tanner's bastard ! 
Fifth Thane. The Falaise byblow ! 

Enter a Thane, from Pevensey, spatter'd 
with mud 

Harold. Ay, but what late guest. 

As haggard as a fast of forty days. 

And caked and plaster'd with a hundred 
mires. 

Hath stumbled on our cups ? 

Thanefrom Pevensey. My lord the King ! 

William the Norman, for the wind had 
changed— 
Harold. I felt it in the middle of that 
fierce fight 

At Stamford -bridge. Williamhath landed, 
ha? 
Thane from Pevensey. Landed at 
Pevensey — I am from Pevensey — 

Hath wasted all the land at Pevensey — 

Hath harried mine own cattle — God con- 
found him ! 

I have ridden night and day from Peven- 
sey — 

A thousand ships — a hundred thousand 
men — 

Thousands of horses, like as many lions 



;act V 



HAROLD 



683 



Neighing and roaring as they leapt to 

land — 
Harold. How oft in coming hast thou 

broken bread ? 
Thane from Peveiisey. Some thrice, 

or so. 

Harold. Bring not thy hoUowness 

On our full feast. Famine is fear, were 

it but 
Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, 

and eat, 
And, when again red-blooded, speak again ; 
{Aside. ) The men that guarded Eng- 
land to the South 
Were scatter'd to the harvest. . . . No 

power mine 
To hold their force together. . . . Many 

are fallen 
At Stamford - bridge . . . the people 

stupid-sure 
Sleep like their swine ... in South and 

North at once 
I could not be. 

{Aloud.) Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, 

Edwin ! 
{Pointing to the revellers.) The curse of 

England ! these are drown'd in 

wassail. 
And cannot see the world but thro' their 

wines ! 
Leave them ! and thee too, Aldwyth, 

must I leave — 
Harsh is the news ! hard is our honeymoon ! 
Thy pardon. {Ttirning round to his 

attendants.) Break the banquet 

up ... Ye four ! 
And thou, mycarrier-pigeonof blacknews, 
Cram thy crop full, but come when thou 

art call'd. {^Exit Harold. 

ACT V 

SCENE I.— A Tent on a Mound, 
from which can be seen the 
Field of Senlac. 

Harold, sitting; by him standi/tg Hugh 
M ARGOT //^<? Monk, Gurth, Leofwin 

Harold. Refer my cause, my crown 
to Rome ! . . . The wolf 



Mudded the brook and predetermined all. 

Monk, 

Thou hast said thy say, and had my 

constant ' No ' 
For all but instant battle. I hear no more. 
Margot. Hear me again — for the last 

time. Arise, 
Scatter thy people home, descend the hill. 
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy Father 
Hath given this realm of England to the 

Norman. 
Harold. Then for the last time, monk, 

I ask again 
When had the Lateran and the Holy 

Father 
To do with England's choice of her own 

king ? 
Ma7'got. Earl, the first Christian 

Caesar drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the West. 
He gave him all the kingdoms of the West. 
Harold. So ! — did he ? — Earl — I have 

a mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and thy 

tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou art but a messenger of 

William. 
I am weary — go : make me not wroth 

with thee ! 
Margot. Mock -king, I am the mes- 
senger of God, 
His Norman Daniel ! Mene, Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare to 

cry, 
Yon heaven is wroth with theel Hear 

me again ! 
Our Saints have moved the Church that 

moves the world. 
And all the Heavens and very God : they 

heard — 
They know King Edward's promise and 

thine — thine. 
Harold. Should they not know free 

England crowns herself? 
Not know that he nor I had power to 

promise ? 
Not know that Edward cancell'd his own 

promise ? 



684 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



And for my part therein — Back to that 

juggler, IRising. 

Tell him the Saints are nobler than he 

dreams, 
Tell him that God is nobler than the 

Saints, 
And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac 

Hill, 
And bide the doom of God. 

]\Iargot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art forsworn is 

cursed. 
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast is 

cursed, 
The corpse thou whelmest with thine 

earth is cursed. 
The soul who fighteth on thy side is cursed, 
The seed thou sowest in thy field is cursed, 
The steer wherewith thou plowest thy 

field is cursed, 
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is cursed, 
And thou, usurper, liar— 

Harold. Out, beast monk ! 

{^Lifting his hand to strike him. 

Gurth stops the blow. 
I ever hated monks. 

Alargot. I am but a voice 

Among you : murder, martyr me if ye 

will — 
Harold. Thanks, Gurth! The 

simple, silent, selfless man 
Is worth a world of tonguesters. [To 

Margot. ) Get thee gone ! 
He means the thing he says. See him 

out safe ! 
Leofzuin. He hath blown himself as 

red as fire with curses. 
An honest fool ! Follow me, honest fool. 
But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk, 
I know not — I may give that egg-bald 

head 
The tap that silences. 

Harold. See him out safe. 

[Exeunt Leofwin and Margot. 

Gm'th. Thou hast lost thine even 

temper, brother Harold ! 
Harold. Gurth, when I past by 

Waltham, my foundation 
For men who serve the neighbour, not 

themselves, 



I cast me down prone, praying ; and, 

when I rose. 
They told me that the Holy Rood had 

lean'd ] 

And bow'd above me ; whether that which 

held it 
Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself were 

bound 
To that necessity which binds us down ; 
Whether it bow'd at all but in their fancy ; 
Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin 
Or glory, who shall tell ? but they were 

sad, 
And somewhat sadden'd me. 

Gitrth. Yet if a fear, 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange 

Saints 
By whom thou swarest, should have power 

to balk 
Thy puissance in this fight with him, who 

made 
And heard thee swear — brother — /have 

not sworn — 
If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall ? 
But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king ; 
And, if I win, I win, and thou art king ; 
Draw thou to London, there make strength 

to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day to 

me. 
Leofzuin {entering). And waste the 

land about thee as thou goest, 
And be thy hand as winter on the field, 
To leave the foe no forage. 

Harold. Noble Gurth ! 



Best son of GodA 



If I fall, I fall- 



The doom of God ! How should the 

people fight 
^Vhen the king flies? And, Leofwin, 

art thou mad ? 
How should the King of England waste 

the fields 
Of England, his own people ? — No glance 

yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the 

heath ? 
Leofzvin. No, but a shoal of wives 

upon the heath. 
And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden fern. 



HAROLD 



685 



Harold. Vying a tear with our cold 
dews, a sigh 

With these low-moaning heavens. Let 
her be fetch'd. 

We have parted from our wife without 
reproach, 

Tho' we have pierced thro'all her practices ; 

And that is well. 

Leofwin. I saw her even now : 

She hath not left us. 

Harold. Nought of Morcar then ? 

Gnrih. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, 
William's or his own 

As wind blows, or tide flows : belike he 
watches, 

If this war-storm in one of its rough 
rolls 

Wash up that old crown of Northumber- 
land. 
Harold. I married her for Morcar — a 
sin against 

The truth of love. Evil for good, it seems, 

Is oft as childless of the good as evil 

For evil. 

Leofwin. Good for good hath borne 
at times 

A bastard false as William. 

Ha)-old. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am some- 
what worn, 

A snatch of sleep were like the peace of 
God. 

Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about the 
hill— 

What did the dead man call it — Sanguelac, 

The lake of blood ? 

Leofwin. A lake that dips in William 

As well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have seen 

The trenches dug, the palisades uprear'd 

And wattled thick with ash and willow- 
wands ; 

Yea, wrought at them myself. Go round 
once more ; 

See all be sound and whole. No Norman 
horse 

Can shatter England, standing shield by 
shield ; 

Tell that again to all. 

Giirth. I will, good brother. 



Harold. Our guardsman hath but 
toil'd his hand and foot, 
I hand, foot, heart and head. Some 
wine ! {One pours wine into a 
goblet which he hands to Harold. ) 
Too much ! 
What? we must use our battle-axe to- 
day. 
Our guardsmen have slept well, since we 
came in ? 
Leofwin. Ay, slept and snored. Your 
second-sighted man 
That scared the dying conscience of the 

king, 
Misheard their snores for groans. They 

are up again 
And chanting that old song of Brunanburg 
Where England conquer'd. 

Harold. That is well. The Norman, 
What is he doing ? 

Leofivin. Praying for Normandy ; 

Our scouts have heard the tinkle of their 
bells. 
Ha7'old. And our old songs are prayers 
for England too ! 
But by all Saints — 

Leofwin. Barring the Norman ! 

Harold. Nay, 

Were the great trumpet blowing dooms- 
day dawn, 
I needs must rest. Call when the 
Norman moves — 

\Exe21nt all, but Harold. 
No horse — thousands of horses — our 

shield wall — 
Wall — break it not — break not — break — 

\_Sleeps. 
Vision of Edward. Son Harold, I thy 
king, who came before 
To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stam- 
ford-bridge, 
Come yet once more, from where I am at 

peace, 
Because I loved thee in my mortal day. 
To tell thee thou shalt die on Senlac 

hill— 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Wulfnoth. O brother, from 
my ghastly oubliette 
I send my voice across the narrow seas — 



686 



HAROLD 



No more, no more, dear brother, never- 
more — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Tostig. O brother, most 
unbrotherlike to me, 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in my 

life, 
I give my voice against thee from the 

grave — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Norman Saints. O hapless 
Harold ! King but for an hour ! 
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones, 
We give our voice against thee out of 

heaven ! 

Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! The arrow ! the 

arrow ! 

Harold {starting np^ battle-axe in 

hand). Away ! 

My battle-axe against your voices. Peace ! 

The king's last word — ' the arrow ! ' I 

shall die — 
I die for England then, who lived for 

England — 
What nobler ? men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor 

brother. 
Art thoit so anger'd ? 
Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy 

hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will that 

wrench'd 
All hearts of freemen from thee. I could 

do 
No other than this way advise the king 
Against the race of Godwin. Is it possible 
That mortal men should bear their earthly 

heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten us 

thence 
Unschool'd of Death ? Thus then thou 

art revenged — 
I left our England naked to the South 
To m.eet thee in the North. The Norse- 
man's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of 

Godwin 
Ilath ruin'd Godwin. No — our waking 
thoughts 



Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed : only dreams — where mine 

own self 
Takes part against myself ! Why ? for a 

spark 
Of self-disdain born in me when I sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over 
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom 
I knew not that I sware, — not for my- 
self— 
For England — yet not wholly — 

Enter Edith 

Edith, Edith, 
Get thou into thy cloister as the king 
Will'd it : be safe : the perjury-mongering 

Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy 

Church 
To break her close ! There the great 

God of truth 
Fill all thine hours with peace ! — A lying 

devil 
Hath haunted me — mine oath — my wife 

— I fain 
Had made my marriage not a lie ; I could 

not : 
Thou art my bride ! and thou in after years 
Praying perchance for this poor soul of 

mine 
In cold, white cells beneath an icy moon — 
This memory to thee ! — and this to 

England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to Pope, 

from age to age. 
Till the sea wash her level with her shores, 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 

Enter Aldwyth 

Aldwyth {to Edith). Away from him ! 
Edith. I will ... I have not spoken 
to the king 
One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! 

{Going. 
Harold. Not yet. 

Stay. 

Edith. To what use ? 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



687 



Harold. The king commands thee, 
woman ! 

( To Aldwyth) 
Have thy two brethren sent their forces in? 
Aldwyth. Nay, I fear not. 
Harold. Then there's no force in thee ! 
Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's ear 
To part me from the woman that I loved ! 
Thou didst arouse the fierce Northum- 
brians ! 
Thou hast been false to England and to 

me ! — 
As ... in some sort ... I have been 

false to thee. 

Leave me. No more — Pardon on both 

sides — Go ! 

Aldwyth. Alas, my lord, I loved thee. 

Harold {bitterly). With a love 

Passing thy love for Griffyth ! wherefore 

now 
Obey my first and last commandment. Go ! 
Aldwyth. O Harold ! husband ! Shall 

we meet again ? 
Harold. After the battle — after the 

battle. Go. 
Aldwyth. I go. {Aside.) That I could 
stab her standing there ! 

lExit Aldwyth. 
Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. 
Harold. Never 1 never ! 

Edith. I saw it in her eyes ! 
Harold. I see it in thine. 

And not on thee — nor England — fall 
God's doom ! 
Edith. On thee ? on me. And thou 
art England ! Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. 

England 
Is but her king, and thou art Harold ! 

Harold. Edith, 

The sign in heaven — the sudden blast at 

sea — 
My fatal oath — the dead Saints — the dark 

dreams — 
The Pope's Anathema — the Holy Rood 
That bow'd to me at Waltham — Edith, if 
I, the last English King of England — 

Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the people, 
And chosen by the people — 



Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living ! living ! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer ! thou 
art Harold, I am Edith ! 
Look not thus wan ! 

Edith. What matters how I look ? 

Have we not broken Wales and Norse- 
land ? slain. 
Whose life was all one battle, incarnate 

war. 
Their giant-king, a mightier man-in-arms 
Than William. 

Harold. Ay, my girl^ no tricks in 
him — 
No bastard he ! when all was lost, he 

yell'd, 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the 

ground, 
And swaying his two-handed sword about 

him, 
Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon 

us 
And died so, and I loved him as I hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate can 

kill, 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle-axe — 
Edith. Waste not thy might before 

the battle ! 
Harold. No, 

And thou must hence. Stigand will see 

thee safe, 
And so — Farewell. 

\He is going, but turns back. 
The ring thou darest not wear, 
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet my 
hand. 
[Harold shows the ring which is on 
his finger. 
Farewell ! 

\^He is going, but turns back again. 
I am dead as Death this day to ought of 

earth's 
Save William's death or mine. 

Edith. Thy death ! — to-day ! 

Is it not thy birthday ? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days and 

many ! 
One — this ! \They embrace. 



688 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



Look, I will bear thy blessing into the 

battle 
And front the doom of God. 

Norman cries {heard in the distance). 

Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 

Enter GuRTH 

Gurth. The Norman moves ! 
Harold. Harold and Holy Cross ! 

\Exeiint Harold and Gurth. 

Enter Stigand 

Stigand. Our Church in arms — the 

lamb the lion — not 
Spear into pruning -hook — the counter 

way — 
Cowl, helm ; and crozier, battle - axe. 

Abbot Alfwig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peterboro' 
Strike for the king ; but I, old wretch, 

old Stigand, 
With hands too limp to brandish iron — 

and yet 
I have a power — would Harold ask me 

for it— 
I have a power. 

Edith. What power, holy father ? 

Stiga7id. Power now from Harold to 

command thee hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 

Edith. I remain ! 

Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, 

until I find 
Which way the battle balance. I can 

see it 
From where we stand : and, live or die, 

I would 
I were among them ! 

Canons from Waltham [singing without) 

Salva patriam 
Sancte Pater, 
Salva Fili, 
Salva Spiritus, 
Salva patriam, 
Sancta Mater, i 

1 The a throughout these Latin hymns should 
be sounded broad, as in ' father." 



Edith. Are those the blessed angels 

quiring, father ? 
Stigand. No, daughter, but the canons 
out of Waltham, 
The king's foundation, that have follow'd 
him. 
Edith. O God of battles, make their 
wall of shields 
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their 

palisades ! 
What is that whirring sound ? 

Stigand. The Norman arrow ! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is 

he safe ? 
Stigand. The king of England stands 
between his banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the hill. 
God save King Harold ! 

Edith. — chosen by his people 

And fighting for his people ! 

Stigand. There is one 

Come as Goliath came of yore — he flings 
His brand in air and catches it again, 
He is chanting some old warsong. 

Edith. And no David 

To meet him ? 

Stigand. Ay, there springs a Saxon 
on him. 
Falls — and another falls. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Lo ! our good Gurth hath 

smitten him to the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

Harold ! 
Canons [singing). 

Hostis in Angliam 

Ruit prsedator, 
Illorum, Domine, 

Scutum scindatur ! 
Hostis per Angliae 
Plagas bacchatur ; 
Casa crematur. 
Pastor fugatur 
Grex trucidatur — 

Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. 
Edith. Ay, good father. 

Canons [singing). 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur ! 



HAROLD 



689 



English cries. Harold and Holy 

Cross ! Out ! out ! 
Stigatid. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Norman foot 
Are storming up the hill. The range of 

knights 
Sit, each a statue on his horse, and wait. 
English cries. Harold and God Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman cHes. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Canons {singing). 

Eques cum pedite 

Prgepediatur ! 
Illorum in lacrymas 

Cruor fundatur ! 
Pereant, pereant, 

Anglia precatur. 

Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Edith. Nay, father, look for me ! 

Stigand. Our axes lighten with a 
single flash 
About the summit of the hill, and heads 
And arms are sliver'd off and splinter'd by 
Their lightning — and they fly — the Nor- 
man flies. 
Edith. Stigand, O father, have we 

won the day ? 
Stigand. No, daughter, no — they fall 
behind the horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the bar- 
ricades ; 
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their helmets — ha ! he is 
down ! 
Edith. He down ! Who down ? 
Stigand. The Norman Count is down, 
i Edith. So perish all the enemies of 
i England ! 

Stigand. No, no, he hath risen again 
I — he bares his face — 

Shouts something — he points onward — 
I all their horse 

1 Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming 
up. 
Edith. O God of battles, make his 
battle-axe keen 
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, heav'y 
As thine own bolts that fall on crimeful 
heads 



Charged with the weight of heaven where- 
from they fall ! 
Canons [singing). 

Jacta tonitrua 

Deus bellator ! 

Surgas e tenebris, 

Sis vindicator ! 

Fulmina, fulmina 

Deus vastator ! 

Edith. O God of battles, they are 
three to one. 
Make thou one man as three to roll them 
down ! 
Canons {singing). 

Equus cum equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies, Acies 

Prona sternatur ! 
Illorum lanceas 
Frange Creator ! 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their lances 

snap and shiver 
Against the shifting blaze of Harold's axe ! 
War- woodman of old Woden, how he fells 
The mortal copse of faces ! There ! And 

there ! 
The horse and horseman cannot meet the 

shield. 
The blow that brains the horseman cleaves 

the horse, 
The horse and horseman roll along the hill, 
They fly once more, they fly, the Norman 

flies! 

Equus cum equite 
Prcecipitatur. 

Edith. O God, the God of truth hath 
heard my cry. 
Follow them, follow them, drive them to 
the sea ! 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur ! 

Stigand. Truth ! no ; a lie ; a trick, 
a Norman trick ! 
They turn on the pursuer, horse against 

foot. 
They murder all that follow. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

2 Y 



690 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



Stigand. Hot-headed fools — to burst 
the wall of shields ! 
They have broken the commandment of 
the king ! 
Edith. His oath was broken — O holy 
Norman Saints, 
Ye that are now of heaven, and see 

beyond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, pardon 

it, 
That he forsware himself for all he loved, 
Me, me and all ! Look out upon the 
battle ! 
Stigand. They thunder again upon the 
barricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick — 
This is the hottest of it : hold, ash ! hold, 
willow ! 
English cries. Out, out ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! 

Stigand. Ha ! Gurth hath leapt upon 
him 
And slain him : he hath fallen. 

Edith. And I am heard. 

Glory to God in the Highest ! fallen, 

fallen ! 

Stigand. No, no, his horse — he 

mounts another — wields 

His war -club, dashes it on Gurth, and 

Gurth, 
Our noble Gurth, is down ! 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. And Leofwin is down ! 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

O Thou that knowest, let not my strong 

prayer 
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I love 
The husband of another ! 

Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Edith. I do not hear our English 

war-cry. 
Stigand. No. 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is 

he safe ? 
Stigand. He stands between the ban- 
ners with the dead 
So piled about him he can hardly move. 
Edith intakes up the war-cry). Out ! 

out ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! 



Edith {cries otit). Harold and Holy 

Cross ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Edith. What is that whirring sound ? 
Stigand. The Norman sends his arrows 

up to Heaven, 
They fall on those within the palisade ! 
Edith. Look out upon the hill — is 

Harold there ? 
Stigand. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — the 

arrow — the arrow ! — away ! 



SCENE H.— Field of the Dead. 

Night 

Aldw^yth and Edith 

Aldwyth. O Edith, art thou here ? 
O Harold, Harold— 
Our Harold — we shall never see him 
more, 
Edith. For there was more than sistei 
in my kiss, 
And so the saints were wroth. I cannot 

love them, 
For they are Norman saints — and yet I 

should — 
They are so much holier than their harlot's 

son 
With whom they play'd their game against 
the king ! 
Aldwyth. The king is slain, the 

kingdom overthrown ! 
Edith. No matter ! 
Aldivyth. How no matter, Harold 

slain ? — 
I cannot find his body. O help me thou ! 

Edith, if I ever wrought against thee, 
Forgive me thou, and help me here ! 

Edith. No matter ! 

Aldwyth. Not help me, nor forgive 

me ? 

Edith. So thou saidest. 

Aldwyth. I say it now, forgive me ! 

Edith. Cross me not ! 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in 

secret. 
Whisper ! God's angels only know it. Ha ! 
What art thoic doing here among the 

dead? 



HAROLD 



691 



They are stripping the dead bodies naked 

yonder, 
And thou art come to rob them of their 
rings ! 
Aldivyth. O Edith, Edith, I have lost 
both crown 
And husband. 

Edith. So have I. 

Aldwyth. I tell thee, girl, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine ! 

The Holy Father strangled him with a 

hair 
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt ; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and 

laugh' d ; 
Then all the dead fell on him. 

Aldwyth. Edith, Edith— 

Edith. What was he like, this hus- 
band ? like to thee ? 
Call not for help from me. I knew him 

not. 
He lies not here : not close beside the 

standard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of 

England. 
Go further hence and find him. 

Aldwyth. She is crazed ! 

Edith. That doth not matter either. 
Lower the light. 
He must be here. 

Enter two Canons, Osgod and Athelric, 
with torches. They turn over the 
dead bodies and examine them as they 
pass. 

Osgod. I think that this is Thurkill. 
Athelric. More likely Godric. 
Osgod. I am sure this body 

Is Alfwig, the king's uncle. 

Athelric. So it is ! 

No, no — brave Gurth, one gash from 
brow to knee ! 
Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 
Edith. And here is He ! 

Aldwyth. Harold? Oh no — nay, if 
it were — my God, 
They have so maim'd and murder'd all 

his face 
There is no man can swear to him. 



Edith. But one woman! 

Look you, we never mean to part again. 
I have found him, I am happy. 
Was there not someone ask'd me for 

forgiveness ? 
I yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never bore revenge. 

Enter Count William and William 
Malet 

William. Who be these women ? 

And what body is this ? 
Edith. Harold, thy better ! 
William. Ay, and what art thou ? 

Edith. His wife ! 

Malet. Not true, my girl, here is the 

Queen ! [Pointing ont Aldwyth. 

William {to Aldwyth). Wast thou his 

Queen ? 
Aldwyth. I was the Queen of Wales. 
William. Why then of England. 

Madam, fear us not. 
( To Malet. ) Knowest thou this other ? 
Malet. When I visited England, 

Some held she was his wife in secret — 

some — 
Well — some believed she was his para- 
mour. 
Edith. Norman, thou liest ! liars all 
of you, 
Your Saints and all ! / am his wife ! 

and she — 
For look, our marriage ring ! 

[She draws it off the finger of Harold. 

I lost it somehow — - 

I lost it, playing with it when I was wild. 

That bred the doubt ! but I am wiser 

now . . . 
I am too wise . . . Will none among 

you all 
Bear me true witness — only for this once — 
That I have found it here again ? 

[She puts it on. 
And thou, 
Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. 

[Falls on the body and dies. 
William. Death !— and enough of 
death for this one day, 
The day of St. Calixtus, and the day, 
My day when I was born. 



692 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



Malet. And this dead king's 

Who, king or not, hath kingUke fought 

and fallen, 
His birthday, too. It seems but yester- 

even 
I held it with him in his English halls. 
His day, with all his rooftree ringing 

' Harold,' 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; 
Wlien all men counted Harold would be 

king, 
And Harold was most happy. 

Williatn. Thou art half English. 

Take them away ! 

Malet, I vow to build a church to God 
Here on the hill of battle ; let our high 

altar 
Stand where their standard fell . . . where 

these two lie. 
Take them away, I do not love to see 

them. 
Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, 

Malet ! 
Malet. Faster than ivy. Must I hack 

her arms off? 
How shall I part them ? 

William. Leave them. Let them be ! 
Bury him and his paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it seems 
Was false to his own wife. We will not 

give him 
A Christian burial : yet he was a warrior. 
And wise, yea truthful, till that blighted 

vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a purple cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste sea- 
shore 
At Hastings, there to guard the land for 

which 



He did forswear himself — a warrior — ay, 
And but that Holy Peter fought for us, 
And that the false Northumbrian held 

aloof. 
And save for that chance arrow which the 

Saints 
Sharpen'd and sent against him — who 

can tell ? — 
Three horses had I slain beneath me : 

twice 
I thought that all was lost. Since I 

knew battle. 
And that was from my boyhood, never 

yet — 
No, by the splendour of God — have I 

fought men 
Like Harold and his brethren, and his 

guard 
Of English. Every man about his king 
Fell where he stood. They loved him : 

and, pray God 
My Normans may but move as true with 

me 
To the door of death. Of one self-stock j 

at first, I 

Make them again one people — Norman, ' 

English ; 
And English, Norman ; we should have 

a hand 
To grasp the world with, and a foot to 

stamp it . . . 
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. 

No more blood ! 
I am king of England, so they thwart me 

not, 
And I will rule according to their laws. 
{To Aldwyth.) Madam, we will entreat 

thee with all honour. 
Aldwyth. My punishment is more 

than I can bear. 



BECKET 

To THE Lord Chancellor 
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL OF SELBORNE 

My dear Selborne — To you, the honoured Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this dramatic 
memorial of your great predecessor ; — which, altho' not intended in its present form to meet the 
exigencies of our modern theatre, has nevertheless — for so you have assured me — won your appro- 
bation.— Ever yours, TENNYSON. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Henry IL {^son of the Earl of Anjou). 

Thomas Becket, Chancellor of England, afterwards ArcJibishop of Canterbury. 

Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London. 

Roger, A rchbishop of York. 

Bishop of Hereford. 

Hilary, Bishop of Chichester. 

JoCELYN, Bishop of Salisbury. 

John of Salisbury "i , . , xr, i a 
•i, „ \ friends of Becket. 

Herbert of Bosham ) 

Walter Map, reputed author of ^ Golias,' Latin poems against the priesthood. 

King Louis of France. 

Geoffrey, son of Rosa^nund and Henry. 

Grim, a 7nonk of Cambridge. 

Sir Reginald Fitzurse^ 

Sir Richard de Brito I , ,,,,,,, , , , 

Sir William de Tracy ^^"■^f ^^ ^f^^S^''^^^ ^f^he King s household, ene7>nes of Becket. 

Sir Hugh de MokvilleJ 

De Broc of Saltwood Castle. 

Lord Leicester. 

Philip de Eleemosyna. 

Two Knight Templars. 

John of Oxford (called the Swearer). 

Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England {divorced from Louis of Fratice). 

Rosamund de Clifford. 

Margery. 

Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc. 



PROLOGUE 

A Castle in Normatidy. Interior of the 
Hall. Roofs of a City seen thro'' 
Windozvs. 

Henry and Becket at chess 

Henry. So then our good Archbishop 
Theobald 
Lies dying. 

Becket. I am grieved to know as 
much. 



Henry. But we must have a mightier 
man than he 
For his successor. 

Becket. Have you thought of one ? 

Henry. A cleric lately poison'd his 
own mother, 
And being brought before the courts of 

the Church, 
They but degraded him. I hope they 

whipt him. 
I would have hang'd him. 

Becket. It is your move. 



693 



694 



BECKET 



PROLOGUE 



Henry. Well — there. \^Moves. 

The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's 

time 
Hath climb'd the throne and almost 

clutch'd the crown ; 
But by the royal customs of our realm 
The Church should hold her baronies of me, 
Like other lords amenable to law. 
I'll have them written down and made 
the law. 
Becket. My liege, I move my bishop. 
Henry. And if I live, 

No man without my leave shall excom- 
municate 
My tenants or my household. 

Becket. Look to your king. 

Henry. No man without my leave 
shall cross the seas 
To set the Pope against me — I pray your 
pardon. 
Becket. Well — will you move ? 
Henry. There. ^Moves. 

Becket. Check — you move so wildly. 
Henry. There then ! \_Moves. 

Becket. Why — there then, for you see 
my bishop 
Hath brought your king to a standstill. 
You are beaten. 
Henry {kicks over the board). Why, 
there then — down go bishop and 
king together. 
I loathe being beaten ; had I fixt my 

fancy 
Upon the game I should have beaten 

thee, 
But that was vagabond. 

Becket. Where, my liege? With 

Phryne, 
Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another ? 
Henry. My Rosamund is no Lais, 
Thomas Becket ; 
And yet she plagues me too — no fault in 

her — 
But that I fear the Queen would have 
her life. 
Becket. Put her away, put her away, 
my liege ! 
Put her away into a nunnery ! 
Safe enough there from her to whom thou 
art bound 



By Holy Church. And wherefore should 

she seek 
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more 
Than that of other paramours of thine ? 
Henry. How dost thou know I am 

not wedded to her ? 
Becket. How should I know ? 
He7i7y. That is my secret, Thomas. 
Becket. State secrets should be patent 

to the statesman 
Who serves and loves his king, and whom 

the king 
Loves not as statesman, but true lover 

and friend. 
Henry. Come, come, thou art but 

deacon, not yet bishop, 
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor 

yet. 
I would to God thou wert, for I should 

find 
An easy father confessor in thee. 

Becket. St. Denis, that thou shouldst 

not. I should beat 
Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten 

it. 
Henry. Hell take thy bishop then, 

and my kingship too ! 
Come, come, I love thee and I know 

thee, I know thee, 
A doter on white pheasant-flesh at feasts, 
A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish, 
A dish-designer, and most amorous 
Of good old red sound liberal Gascon 

wine : 
Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou 

flatter it ? 
Becket. That palate is insane which 

cannot tell 
A good dish from a bad, new wine from 

old. 
Henry. Well, who loves wine loves 

woman. 
Becket. So I do. 

Men are God's trees, and women are 

God's flowers ; 
And when the Gascon wine mounts to 

my head. 
The trees are all the statelier, and the 

flowers 
Are all the fairer. 



PROLOGUE 



BECKET 



69s 



Henry. And thy thoughts, thy fancies? 
Becket. Good dogs, my liege, well 
train'd, and easily call'd 
Off from the game. 

Henry. Save for some once or twice, 
When they ran down the game and 
worried it. 
Becket. No, my liege, no ! — not once 

— in God's name, no ! 
Henry. Nay, then, I take thee at thy 
word — believe thee 
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's hall. 
And so this Rosamund, my true heart- 
wife, 
Not Eleanor — she whom I love indeed 
As a woman should be loved — Why dost 

thou smile 
So dolorously? 

Becket. My good liege, if a man 

Wastes himself among women, how should 

he love 
A woman, as a woman should be loved ? 
Henry. How shouldst thou know 
that never hast loved one ? 
Come, I would give her to thy care in 

England 
When I am out in Normandy or Anjou. 
Becket. My lord, I am your subject, 

not your 

Henry. Pander. 

God's eyes ! I know all that — not my 

purveyor 
Of pleasures, but to save a life — her life ; 
Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell- 
fire. 
I have built a secret bower in England, 

Thomas, 
A nest in a bush. 

Becket. And where, my liege ? 

Henry {whispers). Thine ear. 

Becket. That's lone enough. 
Henry {laying paper on table). This 
chart here mark'd ' Her Bower, ' 
Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a circ- 
ling wood, 
A hundred pathways running everyway. 
And then a brook, a bridge ; and after 

that 
This labyrinthine brickwork maze in 
maze, 



And then another wood, and in the midst 
A garden and my Rosamund. Look, 

this line — 
The rest you see is colour'd green — but 

this 
Draws thro' the chart to her. 

Becket. This blood-red line ? 

Henry. Ay ! blood, perchance, except 

thou see to her. 
Becket. And where is she ? There 

in her English nest ? 
Henry. Would God she were — no, 
here within the city. 
We take her from her secret bower in 

Anjou 
And pass her to her secret bower in 

England. 
She is ignorant of all but«that I love her. 
Becket. My liege, I pray thee let me 
hence : a widow 
And orphan child, whom one of thy wild 

barons 

Henry. Ay, ay, but swear to see to 

her in England. 
Becket. Well, well, I swear, but not 

to please myself. 
Henry. Whatever come between us ? 
Becket. What should come 

Between us, Henry ? 

Henry. Nay — I know not, Thomas. 
Becket. What need then? Well- 
whatever come between us. 

[ Going. 
Henry. A moment ! thou didst help 
me to my throne 
In Theobald's time, and after by thy 

wisdom 
Hast kept it firm from shaking ; but 

now I, 
For my realm's sake, myself must be the 

wizard 
To raise that tempest which will set it 

trembling 
Only to base it deeper. I, true son 
Of Holy Church — no croucher to the 

Gregiories 
That tread the kings their children under- 

heel — 
Must curb her ; and the Holy Father, 
while 



696 



DECKET 



PROLOGUE 



This Barbarossa butts him from his chair, 
Will need my help — be facile to my 

hands. 
Now is my time. Yet — lest there should 

be flashes 
And fulminations from the side of Rome, 
An interdict on England — I will have 
My young son Henry crown'd the King 

of England, 
That so the Papal bolt may pass by 

England, 
As seeming his, not mine, and fall abroad. 
I'll have it done — and now. 

Becket. Surely too young 

Even for this shadow of a crown ; and 

tho' 
I love him heartily, I can spy already 
A strain of hard and headstrong in him. 

Say, 
The Queen should play his kingship 
against thine ! 
Henry. I will not think so, Thomas. 
Who shall crown him ? 
Canterbury is dying. 

Becket. The next Canterbury. 

Henry. And who shall he be, my 

friend Thomas ? Who ? 
Becket. Name him ; the Holy Father 

will confirm him. 
Henry {lays his hand on Becket's 

shoulder). Here ! 
Becket. Mock me not. I am not 

even a monk. 
Thy jest — no more. Why — look — is 

this a sleeve 
For an archbishop? 

Henry. But the arm within 

Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my 
foes. 
Becket. A soldier's, not a spiritual 

arm. 
Henry. I lack a spiritual soldier, 
Thomas — 
A man of this world and the next to boot. 
Becket. There's Gilbert Foliot. 
Henry. He ! too thin, too thin. 

Thou art the man to fill out the Church 

robe ; 
Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much 
for me. 



Becket. Roger of York. 
Henry. Roger is Roger of York. 

King, Church, and State to him but foils 

wherein 
To set that precious jewel, Roger of York. 
No. 

Becket. Henry of Winchester ? 
Henry. Him who crown'd Stephen — 
King Stephen's brother ! No ; too royal 

for me. 
And I'll have no more Anselms. 

Becket. Sire, the business 

Of thy whole kingdom waits me : let 
me go. 
Henry. Answer me first. 
Becket. Then for thy barren jest 

Take thou mine answer in bare common- 
place — 
Nolo episcopari. 

Henry. Ay, but Nolo 

Archiepiscopari^ my good friend, 
Is quite another matter. 

Becket. A more awful one. 

Make me archbishop ! Why, my liege, 

I know 
Some three or four poor priests a thou- 
sand times 
Fitter for this grand function. Me arch- 
bishop ! 
God's favour and king's favour might so 
clash 

That thou and I That were a jest 

indeed ! 
Henry. Thou angerest me, man : I 
do not jest. 

Enter Eleanor and Sir Reginald 

FiTZURSE 

Eleanor [singing). Over ! the sweet 
summer closes, 

The reign of the roses is done 

Henry (to Becket, who is going). Thou 

shalt not go. I have not ended 

with thee. 

Eleanor {seeing chart on table). This 

chart with the red line ! her bower ! 

whose bower ? 

Henry. The chart is not mine, but 
Becket's : take it, Thomas. 

Eleanor. Becket ! O — ay — and these 



PROLOGUE 



BECKET 



697 



chessmen on the floor — the king's crown 
broken ! Becket hath beaten thee again 
— and thou hast kicked down the board. 
I know thee of old. 

Heniy. True enough, my mind was 

set upon other matters. 
Eleanor. What matters? State 

matters ? love inatters ? 
Heujy. My love for thee, and thine 

for me. 
Eleanor. Over ! the sweet summer 
closes. 
The reign of the roses is done ; 
Over and gone with the roses, 
And over and gone with the sun. 

Here ; but our sun in Aquitaine lasts 
longer. I would I were in Aquitaine 
again — your north chills me. 

Over ! the sweet summer closes, 
And never a flower at the close ; 

Over and gone with the roses, 
And winter again and the snows. 
That was not the way I ended it first — 
but unsymmetrically, preposterously, illo- 
gically, out of passion, without art — like 
a song of the people. Will you have 
it ? The last Parthian shaft of a forlorn 
Cupid at the King's left breast, and all 
left-handedness and under-handedness. 
And never a flower at the close. 

Over and gone with the roses. 
Not over and gone with the rose. 
True, one rose will outblossom the rest, 
one rose in a bower. I speak after my 
fancies, for I am a Troubadour, you 
know, and won the violet at Toulouse ; 
but my voice is harsh here, not in tune, 
a nightingale out of season ; for marriage, 
rose or no rose, has killed the golden 
violet. 

Becket. ]\Iadam, you do ill to scorn 
wedded love. 

Eleanor. So I do. Louis of France 
loved me, and I dreamed that I loved 
Louis of France : and 1 loved Henry of 
England, and Henry of England dreamed 
that he loved me ; but the marriage-gar- 
land withers even with the putting on, 
the bright link rusts with the breath of 



the first after -marriage kiss, the harvest 
moon is the ripening of the harvest, and 
the honeymoon is the gall of love ; he 
dies of his honeymoon. I could pity 
this poor world myself that it is no better 
ordered. 

Henry. Dead is he, my Queen ? 
What, altogether ? Let me swear nay to 
that by this cross on thy neck. God's 
eyes ! what a lovely cross ! what jewels ! 

Eleanor. Doth it please you ? Take 
it and wear it on that hard heart of yours 
— there. \^Gives it to him. 

Henry [pnts it on). On this left breast 
before so hard a heart. 
To hide the scar left by thy Parthian dart. 

Eleanor. Has my simple song set 
you jingling ? Nay, if I .took and trans- 
lated that hard heart into our Proven9al 
facilities, I could so play about it with 
the rhyme 

Henry. That the heart were lost in 
the rhyme and the matter in the metre. 
May we not pray you, Madam, to spare 
us the hardness of your facility ? 

Eleanor. The wells of Castaly are 
not wasted upon the desert. We did 
but jest. 

Henry. There's no jest on the brows 
of Herbert there. What is it, Herbert ? 

Enter Herbert of Bosham 

Hei'bert. My liege, the good Arch- 
bishop is no more. 

Henry. Peace to his soul ! 

Hej'bert. I left him with peace on his 
face — that sweet other-world smile, which 
will be reflected in the spiritual body 
among the angels. But he longed much 
to see your Grace and the Chancellor 
ere he past, and his last words were a 
commendation of Thomas Becket to your 
Grace as his successor in the archbishop- 
rick. 

Henry. Ha, Becket ! thou remem- 
berest our talk ! 

Becket. My heart is full of tears — I 
have no answer. 

Henry. Well, well, old men must 
die, or the world would grow mouldy, 



698 



BECKET 



PROLOGUE 



would only breed the past again. Come 
to me to-morrow. Thou hast but to 
hold out thy hand. Meanwhile the 
revenues are mine. A-hawking, a-hawk- 
ing ! If I sit, I grow fat. 

\Leaps over the table, and exit. 

Becket. He did prefer me to the 
chancellorship, 
Believing I should ever aid the Church — 
But have I done it ? He commends me 

now 
From out his grave to this archbishop- 
rick. 

Herbert. A dead man's dying wish 
should be of weight. 

Becket. His should. Come with me. 
Let me learn at full 
The manner of his death, and all he said. 
[^Exettnt Plerbert and Becket. 

Eleanor. Fitzurse, that chart with 
the red line — thou sawest it — her bower. 

Fitzurse. Rosamund's ? 

Eleanor. Ay — there lies the secret of 
her whereabouts, and the King gave it to 
his Chancellor. 

Fitzurse. To this son of a London 
merchant — how your Grace must hate 
him. 

Eleanor. Hate him ? as brave a 
soldier as Henry and a goodlier man : 
but thou — dost thou love this Chancellor, 
that thou hast sworn a voluntary alle- 
giance to him ? 

Fitzurse. Not for my love toward 
him, but because he had the love of the 
King. How should a baron love a 
beggar on horseback, with the retinue of 
three kings behind him, outroyalling 
royalty? Besides, he holp the King to 
break down our castles, for the which I 
hate him. 

Eleanor. For the which I honour 
him. Statesman not Churchman he. 
A great and sound policy that : I could 
embrace him for it : you could not see 
the King for the kinglings. 

Fitzui'se. Ay, but he speaks to a 
noble as tho' he were a churl, and to a 
churl as if he were a noble. 

Eleanor. Pride of the plebeian ! 



Fitzurse. And this plebeian like to be 
Archbishop ! 

Eleanor. True, and I have an in- 
herited loathing of these black sheep of 
the Papacy. Archbishop? I can see 
further into a man than our hot-headed 
Henry, and if there ever come feud 
between Church and Crown, and I do 
not then charm this secret out of our 
loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor. 

Fitztirse. Last night I followed a 
woman in the city here. Her face was 
veiled, but the back methought was 
Rosamund — his paramour, thy rival. 
I can feel for thee. 

Eleanor. Thou feel for me I — para- 
mour — rival ! King Louis had no para- 
mours, and I loved him none the more. 
Ilenry had many, and I loved him none 
the less — now neither more nor less — not 
at all ; the cup's empty. I would she 
were but his paramour, for men tire of 
their fancies ; but I fear this one fancy 
hath taken root, and borne blossom too, 
and she, whom the King loves indeed, is 
a power in the State, Rival ! — ay, and 
when the King passes, there may come a 
crash and embroilment as in Stephen's 
time ; and her children — canst thou not 
— that secret matter which would heat 
the King against thee {whispers him and 
he starts). Nay, that is safe with me as 
with thyself : but canst thou not — thou 
art drowned in debt — thou shalt have our 
love, our silence, and our gold — canst 
thou not — if thou light upon her — free 
me from her ? 

Fitzurse. Well, Madam, I have loved 
her in my time. 

Eleanor. No, my bear, thou hast not. 
My Courts of Love would have held thee 
guiltless of love — the fine attractions and 
repulses, the delicacies, the subtleties. 

Fitzurse. Madam, I loved according 
to the main purpose and intent of nature. 

Eleanor. I warrant thee ! thou 
wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs 
cracked — enough of this. Follow me 
this Rosamund day and night, whither- 
soever she goes ; track her, if thou canst, 



ACT I 



BECKET 



699 



even into the King's lodging, that I 
may {clenches her fist) — may at least have 
my cry against him and her, — and thou 
in thy way shouldst be jealous of the 
King, for thou in thy way didst once, what 
shall I call it, affect her thine own self. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but the young colt 
winced and whinnied and flung up her 
heels ; and then the King came honeying 
about her, and this Becket, her father's 
friend, like enough staved us from her. 

Eleanor. Us ! 

Fitzurse. Yea, by the Blessed Virgin ! 
There were more than I buzzing round 
the blossom — De Tracy — even that flint 
De Brito. 

Eleanor. Carry her off among you ; 
run in upon her and devour her, one and 
all of you ; make her as hateful to herself 
and to the King, as she is to me. 

Fitzurse. I and all would be glad to 
wreak our spite on the rosefaced minion 
of the King, and bring her to the level of 
the dust, so that the King ■ 

Eleanor. Let her eat it like the 
serpent, and be driven out of her para- 
dise. 

ACT I 

SCENE I.— Becket's House in 
London 

Chamber barely furnished. Becket 
unrobing. HERBERT OF Bosham and 
Servant. 

. Sei'vant. Shall I not help your lord- 
ship to your rest ? 
Becket. Friend, am I so much better 
than thyself 
That thou shouldst help me ? Thou art 

wearied out 
With this day's work, get thee to thine 

own bed. 
Leave me with Herbert, friend. 

\^Exit Servant. 
Help me off, Herbert, with this — and 
this. 
Herbert. Was not the people's bless- 
ing as we past 
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood ? 



Becket. The people know their Church 

a tower of strength, 

A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. 

Too heavy for me, this ; off with it, 

Herbert ! 

Herbert. Is it so much heavier than 

thy Chancellor's robe ? 
Becket. No ; but the Chancellor's and 
the Archbishop's 
Together more than mortal man can bear. 
Herbert. Not heavier than thine 

armour at Thoulouse ? 
Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my 
chancellorship 
I more than once have gone against the 
Church. 
Herbert. To please the King? 
Becket. Ay, and the King of kings, 
Or justice ; for it seem'd to me but just 
The Church should pay her scutage like 

the lords. 
But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert 

Foliot 
That I am not the man to be your 

Primate, 
For Henry could not work a miracle — 
Make an Archbishop of a soldier ? 

Herbe7't. Ay, 

For Gilbert FoHot held himself the man. 
Becket. Am I the man ? My mother, 
ere she bore me, 
Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering 

out of heaven 
Into her bosom. 

Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light, 

The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd 
Into thy making. 

Becket. And when I was a child, 

The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, 
Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. 

Dream, 
Or prophecy, that ? 

Herbert. Well, dream and prophecy 

both. 
Becket. And when I was of Theobald's 
household, once — 
The good old man would sometimes have 

his jest — 
He took his mitre off, and set it on 



70O 



BECKET 



And said, ' My young Archbishop — thou 

wouldst make 
A stately Archbishop ! ' Jest or prophecy 

there ? 
Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. 
Becket. Am I the man ? That rang 
Within my head last night, and when I 

slept 
Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster, 
And spake to the Lord God, and said, 

' O Lord, 
I have been a lover of wines, and delicate 

meats, 
And secular splendours, and a favourer 
Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder 
Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, 

and lynxes. 
Am /the man ? ' And the Lord answer'd 

me, 
'Thou art the man, and all the more the 

man.' 
And then I asked again, ' O Lord my God, 
Henry the King hath been my friend, my 

brother. 
And mine uplifter in this world, and 

chosen me 
For this thy great archbishoprick, be- 
lieving 
That I should go against the Church with 

him. 
And I shall go against him with the 

Church, 
And I have said no word of this to him : 
Am /the man ? ' And the Lord answer'd 

me, 
* Thou art the man, and all the more the 

man. ' 
And thereupon, methought. He drew to- 
ward me. 
And smote me down upon the Minster floor. 
I fell. 

Herbert. God make not thee, but thy 

foes, fall. 
Becket. I fell. Why fall ? Why did 

He smite me ? What ? 
Shall I fall off — to please the King once 

more ? 
Not fight— tho' somehow traitor to the 

King— 
My truest and mine utmost for the Church ? 



Herbert. Thou canst not fall that way. 

Let traitor be ; 
For how have fought thine utmost for the 

Church, 
Save from the throne of thine archbishop- 
rick ? 
And how been made Archbishop hadst 

thou told him, 
' I mean to fight mine utmost for the 

Church, 
Against the King ' ? 

Becket. But dost thou think the King 
Forced mine election ? 

Herbert. I do think the King 

Was potent in the election, and why not? 
Why should not Heaven have so inspired 

the King? 
Be comforted. Thou art the man — be 

thou 
A mightier Anselni. 

Becket. I do believe thee, then. I 

am the man. 
And yet I seem appall'd — on such a 

sudden 
At such an eagle-height I stand and see 
The rift that runs between me and the 

King. 
I served our Theobald well when I was 

with him ; 
I served King Henry well as Chancellor ; 
I am his no more, and I must serve the 

Church. 
This Canterbury is only less than Rome, 
And all my doubts I fling from me like 

dust, 
Winnow and scatter all scruples to the 

wind, 
And all the puissance of the warrior, j 
And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, 
And all the heap'd experiences of life, j 
I cast upon the side of Canterbury — 
Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits 
With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, 

thro' 
The random gifts of careless kings, have 

graspt 
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, 

farms. 
And goodly acres — we will make her 

whole ; 



SCENE I 



BECKET 



701 



Not one rood lost. And for these Royal 

customs, 
These ancient Royal customs — they ai-e 

Royal, 
Not of the Church — and let them be 

anathema, 
And all that speak for them anathema. 
Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too 

much. 
Becket. O Herbert, here 

I gash myself asunder from the King, 
Tho' leaving each, a wound ; mine own, 

a grief 
To show the scar for ever — his, a hate 
Not ever to be heal'd. 

Ejiter Rosamund de Clifford, _/?v2«<?' 
from Sir Reginald Fitzurse. 
Drops her veil. 

Becket. Rosamund de Clifford ! 

Rosaimind. Save me, father, hide me 
— they follow me — and I must not be 
known. 

Becket. Pass in with Herbert there. 
\Exeunt Rosamund and Herbert 
by side door. 

Enter Fitzurse 

Fitztirse. The Archbishop ! 
Becket. Ay ! what wouldst thou, Regi- 
nald? 
Fitzurse, Why — why, my lord, I fol- 

low'd — foUow'd one 

Becket. And then what follows ? Let 

me follow thee. 
Fitzurse. It much imports me I should 

know her name. 
Becket. What her ? 
Fitzurse. The woman that I foUow'd 

hither. 
Becket. Perhaps it may import her all 

as much 
Not to be known. 

Fitzurse. And what care I for that ? 
Come, come, my lord Archbishop ; I saw 

that door 
Close even now upon the woman. 

Becket. Well ? 

Fitzurse {making for the door). Nay, let 

me pass, my lord, for I must know. 



Becket. Back, man ! 

Fitzurse. Then tell me who 

and what she is. 
Becket. Art thou so sure thou fol- 
lowedst anything ? 
Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for 

thine eyes 
Glare stupid-wild with wine. 

Fitzzirsc [making to the door). I must 
and will. 
I care not for thy new archbishoprick. 
Becket. Back, man, I tell thee ! 
What! 
Shall I forget my new archbishoprick 
And smite thee with my crozier on the 

skull ? 
'Fore God, I am a mightier man than 
thou. 
Fitzurse. It well befits thy new arch- 
bishoprick 
To take the vagabond woman of the 

street 
Into thine arms ! 

Becket. O drunken ribaldry ! 

Out, beast ! out, bear ! 

Fitzurse. I shall remember this. 

Becket. Do, and begone ! 

\^Exit Fitzurse. 

{Going to the door, sees De Tracy. 

Tracy, what dost thou here ? 

De Tracy. My lord, I follow'd 

Reginald Fitzurse. 
Becket. Follow him out ! 
De Tracy. I shall remember this 

Discourtesy. {Exit. 

Becket. Do. These be those baron- 
brutes 
That havock'd all the land in Stephen's 

day. 
Rosamund de Clifford. 

Re-enter Rosamund and Herbert 

Rosamtind. Here am I. 

Becket. Why here ? 

We gave thee to the charge of John of 

Salisbury, 
To pass thee to thy secret bower to- 
morrow. 
Wast thou not told to keep thyself from 
sight ? 



702 



BECKET 



ACT i 



Rosamund. Poor bird of passage ! so 

I was ; but, father, 
They say that you are wise in winged 

things. 
And know the ways of Nature. Bar the 

bird 
From following the fled summer — a chink 

— he's out, 
Gone ! And there stole into the city a 

breath 
Full of the meadows, and it minded me 
Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and the 

walks 
Where I could move at pleasure, and I 

thought 
Lo ! I must out or die. 

Becket. Or out and die. 

And what hast thou to do with this 

Fitzurse ? 
Rosavmnd. Nothing. He sued my 

hand. I shook at him. 
He found me once alone. Nay — nay — 

I cannot 
Tell you : my father drove him and his 

friends, 
De Tracy and De Brito, from our castle. 
I was but fourteen and an April then. 
I heard him swear revenge. 

Becket. Why will you court it 

By self-exposure ? flutter out at night ? 
Make it so hard to save a moth from the 

fire? 
Rosamund. I have saved many of 

'em. You catch 'em, so, 
Softly, and fling them out to the free 

air. 
They burn themselves within-Aoox. 

Becket. Our good John 

Must speed you to your bower at once. 

The child 
Is there already. 

Rosamund. Yes — the child — the 

child— 
O rare, a whole long day of open field. 
Becket. Ay, but you go disguised. 
Rosamund. O rare again ! 

We'll baffle them, I warrant. What 

shall it be ? 
I'll go as a nun. 
Becket. No. 



Rosamund. What, not good enough 
Even to play at nun ? 

Becket. Dan John with a nun. 

That Map, and these new railers at the 

Church 
May plaister his clean name with 

scurrilous rhymes ! 
No ! 

Go like a monk, cowling and clouding up 
That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the squint 
Of lust and glare of malice. Good night ! 
good night ! 
Rosamund. Father, I am so tender 
to all hardness ! 
Nay, father, first thy blessing. 

Becket. Wedded ? 

Rosamujid. Father ! 

Becket. Well, well ! I ask no more. 

Heaven bless thee ! hence ! 
Rosamund. O, holy father, when 
thou seest him next. 
Commend me to thy friend. 

Becket. What friend ? 

Rosam2ind. The King. 

Becket. Herbert, take out a score of 

armed men 

To guard this bird of passage to her cage ; 

And watch Fitzurse, and if he follow 

thee. 
Make him thy prisoner. I am Chancellor 
yet. 

\Exeunt Herbert and Rosamund. 
Poor soul ! poor soul ! 
My friend, the King ! . . . O thou 

Great Seal of England, 
Given me by my dear friend the King of 

England — 
We long have wrought together, thou 

and I — 
Now must I send thee as a common 

friend 
To tell the King, my friend, I am against 

him. 
We are friends no more : he will say that, 

not I. 
The worldly bond between us is dissolved, 
Not yet the love : can I be under him 
As Chancellor ? as Archbishop over him ? 
Go therefore like a friend slighted by one 
That hath climb'd up to nobler company. 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



703 



Not slighted — all but moan'd for : thou 

must go. 
I have not dishonour'd thee — I trust I 

have not ; 
Not mangled justice. May the hand 

that next 
Inherits thee be but as true to thee 
As mine hath been ! O, my dear friend, 

the King ! 

brother ! — I may come to martyrdom. 

1 am martyr in myself already. — Herbert I 

Herbert {re-eiite7-ing). My lord, the 
town is quiet, and the moon 
Divides the whole long street with light 

and shade. 
No footfall — no Fitzurse. We have seen 
her home. 
Becket. The hog hath tumbled himself 
into some corner, 
Some ditch, to snore away his drunken- 
ness 
Into the sober headache, — Nature's moral 
Against excess. Let the Great Seal be 

sent 
Back to the King to-morrow. 

Herbert. Must that be ? 

The King may rend the bearer limb from 

limb. 
Think on it again. 

Becket. Against the moral excess 

No physical ache, but failure it may be 
Of all we aim'd at. John of Salisbury 
Hath often laid a cold hand on my heats. 
And Herbert hath rebuked me even 

now. 
I will be wise and wary, not the soldier 
As Foliot swears it. — John, and out of 
breath ! 

Enter John of Salisbury 

John of Salisbury. Thomas, thou wast 
not happy taking charge 
Of this wild Rosamund to please the 

King, 

Nor am I happy having charge of her — 
The included Danae has escaped again 
Her tower, and her Acrisius — where to 

seek? 
I have been about the city. 

Becket. Thou wilt find her 



Back in her lodging. Go with her — at 

once — 
To-night — my men will guard you to the 

gates. 
Be sweet to her, she has many enemies. 
Send the Great Seal by daybreak. Both, 

good night ! 

SCENE II. — Street in Northamp- 
ton LEADING TO THE CaSTLE 

Eleanor's Retainers and Becket's 
Retainers/^/z/w^. Enter Eleanor 
and Becket /r^w opposite streets. 

Eleanor. Peace, fools ! 

Becket, Peace, friends ! what idle 

brawl is this ? 
Retainer of Becket. They said — her 
Grace's people — thou wast 
found — 
Liars ! I shame to quote 'em — caught, 

my lord. 
With a wanton in thy lodging — Hell 
requite 'em ! 
Retainer of Eleanor. My liege, the 
Lord Fitzurse reported this 
In passing to the Castle even now. 

Retainer of Becket. And then they 
mock'd us and we fell upon 'em. 
For we would live and die for thee, my 

lord, 
However kings and queens may frown on 
thee. 
Becket to his Retainers. Go, go — no 

more of this ! 
Eleanor to her Retainers. Away ! — 

[Exeunt Retainers) Fitzurse 

Becket. Nay, let him be. 
Eleanor. No, no, my Lord 

Archbishop, 
'Tis known you are midwinter to all 

women, 
But often in your chancellorship you 

served 
The follies of the King. 

Becket. No, not these follies ! 

Eleanor. My lord, Fitzurse beheld 

her in your lodging. 
Becket. Whom ? 



704 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Eleanoj: Well — you know — the 

minion, Rosamund. 
Becket. He had good eyes ! 
Eleanor. Then hidden in the street 
He watch'd her pass with John of Salis- 
bury 
And heard her cry ' Where is this bower 
of mine ? ' 
Becket. Good ears too ! 
Eleanor. You are going to the Castle, 
Will you subscribe the customs ? 

Becket. I leave that, 

Knowing how much you reverence Holy 

Church, 
My liege, to your conjecture. 

Eleanor. I and mine — 

And many a baron holds along with 

me — 
Are not so much at feud with Holy 

Church 
But we might take your side against the 

customs — 
So that you grant me one slight favour. 
Becket. What ? 

Eleajior. A sight of that same chart 
which Henry gave you 
With the red line — 'her bower.' 

Becket. And to what end ? 

Eleanor. That Church must scorn 

herself whose fearful Priest 

Sits winking at the license of a king, 

Altho' we grant when kings are dangerous 

The Church must play into the hands of 

kings ; 
Look ! I would move this wanton from 

his sight 
And take the Church's danger on myself. 
Becket. For which she should be duly 

grateful. 
Eleanor. True ! 

Tho' she that binds the bond, herself 

should see 
That kings are faithful to their marriage 
vow. 
Becket. Ay, Madam, and queens also. 
Eleanor. And queens also ! 

What is your drift ? 

Becket. My drift is to the Castle, 

Where I shall meet the Barons and my 

King. \^Exit. 



De Broc, De Tracy, De Brito, 
De Morville {passing) 

Eleanor. To the Castle ? 
De Broc. Ay ! 

Eleanor. Stir up the King, the Lords ! 
Set all on fire against him ! 

De Brito. Ay, good Madam I 

\Exeunt. 

Eleanor. Fool ! I will make thee 

hateful to thy King. 

Churl ! I will have thee frighted into 

France, 
And I shall live to trample on thy grave. 



SCENE IIL— The Hall in North- 
ampton Castle 

On one side of the stage the doors of an 
inner Council - Cha?nber, half- open. 
At the bottom, the great doors of the 
Hall. Roger Archbishopof York, 
FoLioT Bishop of London, Hil- 
ary OF Chichester, Bishop of 
Hereford, Richard de Hastings 
{Grajid Prior of Templars), Philip 
de Eleemosyna {the Pope's Almoner), 
and others. De Broc, Fitzurse, De 
Brito, De Morville, De Tracy, 
and other Barons assembled — a table 
befoi-e them. John of Oxford, 
President of the Council. 

Enter Becket and Herbert of 
Bosham 

Becket. Where is the King ? 

Roger of York. Gone hawking on 

the Nene, 
His heart so gall'd with thine ingratitude. 
He will not see thy face till thou hast 

sign'd 
These ancient laws and customs of the 

realm. 
Thy sending back the Great Seal mad- 

den'd him. 
He all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes 

away. 
Take heed, lest he destroy thee utterly. 
Becket. Then shalt thou step into my 

place and sign. 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



705 



! Roger of York. Didst thou not pro- 
mise Henry to obey 
t These ancient laws and customs of the 

reahii ? 
1 Becket. Saving the honour of my 
! order — ay. 

j Customs, traditions, — clouds that come 
j and go ; 

The customs of the Church are Peter's 
rock. 
Roger of York. Saving thine order ! 
But King Henry sware 
! That, saving his King's kingship, he 

would grant thee 
i The crown itself. Saving thine order, 
j Thomas, 

I Is black and white at once, and comes 
\ to nought, 

O bolster'd up with stubbornness and 

pride. 
Wilt thou destroy the Church in fighting 

for it, 
And bring us all to shame ? 

Becket. Roger of York, 

When I and thou were youths in Theo- 
bald's house, 
' Twice did thy malice and thy calumnies 
Exile me from the face of Theobald. 
Now I am Canterbury and thou art 
York. 
i Roger of York. And is not York the 
peer of Canterbury ? 
Did not Great Gregory bid St. Austin 

here 
Found two archbishopricks, London and 
York ? 
Becket. What came of that? The 
first archbishop fled. 
And York lay barren for a hundred years. 
Why, by this rule, Foliot may claim the 

pall 
For London too. 

Foliot. And with good reason too. 

For London had a temple and a priest 
When Canterbury hardly bore a name. 
Becket. The pagan temple of a pagan 
Rome ! 
The heathen priesthood of a heathen 

creed ! 
Thou goest beyond thyself in petulancy ! 
T 



Who made thee London ? Who, but 

Canterbury ? 

John of Oxfo7'd. Peace, peace, my 

lords ! these customs are no longer 

As Canterbury calls them, wandering 

clouds. 
But by the King's command are written 

down. 
And by the King's command I, John of 

Oxford, 
The President of this Council, read them. 
Becket. Read ! 

John of Oxford {reads). ' All causes 
of advowsons and presentations, whether 
between laymen or clerics, shall be tried 
in the King's court.' 

Becket. But that I cannot sign : for 
that would drag 
The cleric before the civil judgment-seat, 
And on a matter wholly spiritual. 

Johjt of Oxford. ' If any cleric be 
accused of felony, the Church shall not 
protect him ; but he shall answer to the 
summons of the King's court to be tried 
therein.' 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. 
Is not the Church the visible Lord on 

earth ? 
Shall hands that do create the Lord be 

bound 
Behind the back like laymen-criminals? 
The Lord be judged again by Pilate ? 
No! 
John of Oxford. ' When a bishoprick 
falls vacant, the King, till another be 
appointed, shall receive the revenues 
thereof. ' 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. Is 
the King's treasury 
A fit place for the monies of the Church, 
That be the patrimony of the poor ? 

John of Oxford. ' And when the 
vacancy is to be filled up, the King shall 
summon the chapter of that church to 
court, and the election shall be made in 
the Chapel Royal, with the consent of 
our lord the King, and by the advice of 
his Government.' 

Becket. And that I cannot sign : for 
that would make 

2 Z 



7o6 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Our island-Church a schism from Christ- 
endom, 
And weight down all free choice beneath 
the throne. 
Foliot. And was thine own election 
so canonical, 
Good father ? 

Becket. If it were not, Gilbert Foliot, 
I mean to cross the sea to France, and lay 
My crozier in the Holy Father's hands, 
And bid him re-create me, Gilbert Foliot. 
Foliot. Nay ; by another of these 
customs thou 
Wilt not be suffer'd so to cross the seas 
Without the license of our lord the King. 
Becket. That, too, I cannot sign. 

De Broc, De Brito, De Tracy, 
FiTZURSE, De Morville, start up 
— a clash of sivords. 

Sign and obey ! 

Becket., My lords, is this a combat or 

a council ? 

Are ye my masters, or my lord the King? 

Ye make this clashing for no love o' the 

customs 
Or constitutions, or whate'er ye call them. 
But that there be among you those that 

hold 
Lands reft from Canterbury. 

De Broc. And mean to keep them, 
In spite of thee ! 

Lords {shouting). Sign, and obey the 

crown ! 
Becket. The crown ? Shall I do less 
for Canterbury 
Than Henry for the crown ? King 

Stephen gave 
Many of the crown lands to those that 

helpt him ; 
So did Matilda, the King's mother. Mark, 
When Henry came into his own again, 
Then he took back not only Stephen's gifts, 
But his own mother's, lest the crown 

should be 
Shorn of ancestral splendour. This did 

Henry. 
Shall I do less for mine own Canterbury? 
And thou, De Broc, that boldest Salt- 
wood Castle 



De Broc. And mean to hold it, or 

Becket. To have my life. 

De Broc. The King is quick to 
anger ; if thou anger him. 
We wait but the King's word to strike 
thee dead. 
Becket. Strike, and I die the death 
of martyrdom ; 
Strike, and ye set these customs by my 

death 
Ringing their own death-knell thro' all 
the realm, 
He7'bert. And I can tell you, lords, 
ye are all as like 
To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket's heart 
As find a hare's form in a lion's cave. 
John of Oxford. Ay, sheathe your 
swords, ye will displease the 
King. 
De Broc. Why down then thou ! but 
an he come to Saltwood, 
By God's death, thou shalt stick him 
like a calf ! 

{Sheathing his sword. 
Hilary. O my good lord, I do entreat 
thee — sign. 
Save the King's honour here before his 

barons. 
He hath sworn that thou shouldst sign, 

and now but shuns 
The semblance of defeat ; I have heard 

him say 
He means no more ; so if thou sign, my 

lord. 
That were but as the shadow of an assent. 
Becket. 'Twould seem too like the 

substance, if I sign'd. 
Philip de Elecmosyna. My lord, thine 
ear ! I have the ear of the Pope. 
As thou hast honour for the Pope our 

master. 
Have pity on him, sorely prest upon 
By the fierce Emperor and his Antipope. 
Thou knowest he was forced to fly to 

France ; 
He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify 
Thy King ; for if thou go against thy 

King, 
Then must he likewise go against thy 
King, 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



707 



And then thy King might join the Anti- 
pope, 
And that would shake the Papacy as it 

stands. 
Besides, thy King swore to our cardinals 
He meant no harm nor damage to the 

Church. 
Smooth thou his pride — thy signing is 

but form ; 
Nay, and should harm come of it, it is 

the Pope 
Will be to blame — not thou. Over and 

over 
He told me thou shouldst pacify the 

King, 
Lest there be battle between Heaven and 

Earth, 
And Earth should get the better — for the 

time. 
Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou 

sign? 
Becket. Have I the orders of the 

Holy Father ? 
Philip de Eleemosyna. Orders, my 

lord — why, no ; for what am I ? 
The secret whisper of the Ploly Father. 
Thou, that hast been a statesman, couldst 

thou always 
Blurt thy free mind to the air? 

Becket. If Rome be feeble, then 

should I be firm. 
Philip. Take it not that way — balk 

not the Pope's will. 
When he hath shaken off the Emperor, 
He heads the Church against the King 

with thee. 
Richard de Hastijigs {kneeling). 

Becket, I am the oldest of the 

Templars ; 
I knew thy father ; he would be mine age 
Had he lived now ; think of me as thy 

father ! 
Behold thy father kneeling to thee, 

Becket. 
Submit ; I promise thee on my salvation 
That thou wilt hear no more o' the 

customs. 
Becket. What ! 

Hath Henry told thee ? hast thou talk'd 

with him ? 



Another Templar {kneeling). Father, 
I am the youngest of the Temp- 
lars, 
Look on me as I were thy bodily son, 
For, like a son, I lift my hands to thee. 
Philip. Wilt thou hold out for ever, 
Thomas Becket ? 
Dost thou not hear ? 

Becket {signs). Why — there then — 
there — I sign, 
And swear to obey the customs. 

Foliot. Is it thy will, 

My lord Archbishop, that we too should 
sign ? 
Becket. O ay, by that canonical 
obedience 
Thou still hast owed thy father, Gilbert 
Foliot. 
Foliot. Loyally and with good faith, 

my lord Archbishop ? 
Becket. O ay, with all that loyalty 
and good faith 
Thou still hast shown thy primate, Gilbert 
Foliot. 
[Becket draws apart with Herbert. 
Herbert, Herbert, have I betray'd the 

Church ? 
I'll have the paper back — blot out my 
name. 
Herbert. Too late, my lord : you see 

they are signing there. 
Becket. False to myself — it is the will 
of God 
To break me, prove me nothing of my- 
self! 
This Almoner hath tasted Henry's gold. 
The cardinals have finger'd Henry's gold. 
And Rome is venal ev'n to rottenness. 
I see it, I see it. 

I am no soldier, as he said — at least 
No leader. Herbert, till I hear from the 

Pope 
I will suspend myself from all my func- 
tions. 
If fast and prayer, the lacerating 

scourge 

Foliot {from the table). My lord 

Archbishop, thou hast yet to seal. 

Becket. First, Foliot, let me see what 

I have sign'd. {^Goes to the table. 



7o8 



BECKET 



What, this ! and this ! — what ! new and 

old together ! 
Seal ? If a seraph shouted from the 

sun, 
And bad me seal against the rights of the 

Church, 
I would anathematise him. I will not 

seal. \^Exit with Herbert. 

Enter King Henry 
Henry. Where's Thomas ? hath he 
sign'd ? show me the papers ! 

Sign'd and not seal'd ! How's that ? 
John of Oxford. He would not seal. 

And when he sign'd, his face was stormy- 
red — 

Shame, wrath, I know not what. He 
sat down there 

And dropt it in his hands, and then a 
paleness. 

Like the wan twilight after sunset, crept 

Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd, 

' False to myself ! It is the will of God ! ' 
Henry. God's will be what it will, 
the man shall seal, 

Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's 
son — 

Nay, if I cannot break him as the prelate, 

I'll crush him as the subject. Send for 
him back. \Sits on his thj'one. 

Barons and bishops of our realm of Eng- 
land, 

After the nineteen winters of King 
Stephen — 

A reign which was no reign, when none 
could sit 

By his own hearth in peace ; when mur- 
der common 

As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, 
had fill'd 

All things with blood ; when every door- 
way blush'd, 

Dash'dred with that unhallow'd passover ; 

When every baron ground his blade in 
blood ; 

The household dough was kneaded up 
with blood ; 

The millwheel turn'd in blood ; the 
wholesome plow 

Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow weeds, 



Till famine dwarft the race — I came, 

your King ! 
Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the 

East, 
In mine own hall, and sucking thro' fools' 

ears 
The flatteries of corruption — went abroad 
Thro' all my counties, spied my people's 

ways ; 
Yea, heard the churl against the baron — 

yea. 
And did him justice ; sat in mine own 

courts 
Judging my judges, that had found a 

King 
Who ranged confusions, made the twilight 

day, 
And struck a shape from out the vague, 

and law 
From madness. And the event — our 

fallows till'd. 
Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm 

again. 
So far my course, albeit not glassy- 
smooth, 
Had prosper'd in the main, but suddenly 
Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated 
The daughter of his host, and murder'd 

him. 
Bishops — York, London, Chichester, 

Westminster — 
Ye haled this tonsured devil into your 

courts ; 
But since your canon will not let you 

take 
Life for a life, ye but degraded him 
Where I had hang'd him. What doth 

hard murder care 
For degradation ? and that made me 

muse, 
Being bounden by my coronation oath 
To do men justice. Look to it, your 

own selves ! 
Say that a cleric murder'd an archbishop. 
What could ye do ? Degrade, imprison 

him — 
Not death for death. 
John of Oxford. But I, my liege, 

could swear. 
To death for death. 



( 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



709 



Henry. And, looking thro' my reign, 

I found a hundred ghastly murders done 

By men, the scum and offal of the 
Church ; 

Then, glancing thro' the story of this 
realm, 

I came on certain wholesome usages, 

Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's 
day, 

Good royal customs — had them written 
fair 

For John of Oxford here to read to you. 
John of Oxford. And I can easily 
swear to these as being 

The King's will and God's will and jus- 
tice ; yet 

I could but read a part to-day, be- 
cause 

Fitzurse. Because my lord of Canter- 
bury 

De Tracy. Ay, 

This lord of Canterbury 

De Brito. As is his wont 

Too much of late whene'er your royal 
rights 

Are mooted in our councils 

Fitzurse. — made an uproar. 

Henry. And Becket had my bosom 
on all this ; 

If ever man by bonds of gratefulness — 

I raised him from the puddle of the 
gutter, 

I made him porcelain from the clay of 
the city — 

Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' 
love of him, 

Hoped, were he chosen archbishop, 
Church and Crown, 

Two sisters gliding in an equal dance, 

Two rivers gently flowing side by side — 

But no ! 

The bird that moults sings the same song 
again, 

The snake that sloughs comes out a snake 
again. 

Snake — ay, but he that lookt a fangless 
one, 

Issues a venomous adder. 

For he, when having dofft the Chancellor's 
robe — 



Flung the Great Seal of England in my 

face — 
Claim'd some of our crown lands for 

Canterbury — 
My comrade, boon companion, my co- 
reveller. 
The master of his master, the King's 

king.— 
God's eyes ! I had meant to make him 

all but king. 
Chancellor - Archbishop, he might well 

have sway'd 
All England under Henry, the young 

King, 
When I was hence. What did the traitor 

say? 
False to himself, but ten-fold false to me ! 
The will of God — why, then it is my will — 
Is he coming ? 

Messenger {entering). With a crowd 

of worshippers. 
And holds his cross before him thro' the 

crowd. 
As one that puts himself in sanctuary. 
Henry. His cross ! 
Roger of York. His cross ! I'll front 

him, cross to cross. 

{Itxit Roger of York. 
Henry. His cross ! it is the traitor 

that imputes 
Treachery to his King ! 
It is not safe for me to look upon him. 
Away — with me ! 

\Goes in tvitk his Barons to the 

Council- Chamber^ the door of which 

is left open. 

Enter Becket, holding his cross of silver 
before hijn. The Bishops come round 
him. 

Herefo7'd. The King will not abide 
thee with thy cross. 
Permit me, my good lord, to bear it for 

thee, 
Being thy chaplain. 

Becket. No : it must protect me. 

Herbert. As once he bore the stand- 
ard of the Angles, 
So now he bears the standard of the 
angels. 



7IO 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Foliot. I am the Dean of the pro- 
vince : let me bear it. 
Make not thy King a traitorous murderer. 

Becket. Did not your barons draw 
their swords against me ? 

Enter Roger of York, ivith his cross, 
advancing to Becket 
Becket. Wherefore dost thou presume 
to bear thy cross, 
Against the solemn ordinance from Rome, 
Out of thy province ? 

Roger of York. Why dost thou pre- 
sume, 
Arm'd with thy cross, to come before 

the King ? 
If Canterbury bring his cross to court, 
Let York bear his to mate with Canter- 
bury. 
Foliot {seizing hold of Becket's cross). 
Nay, nay, my lord, thou must not 
brave the King. 
Nay, let me have it. I will have it ! 
Becket. Away ! 

[Flinging hi??i off. 
Foliot. He fasts, they say, this mitred 
Hercules ! 
He fast ! is that an arm of fast ? My 

lord, 
Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone along 

with thee ; 
But thou the shepherd hast betray'd the 

sheep. 
And thou art perjured, and thou wilt not 

seal. 
As Chancellor thou wast against the 

Church, 
Now as Archbishop goest against the 

King; 
For, like a fool, thou know'st no middle 

. way. 
Ay, ay ! but art thou stronger than the 
King ? 
Becket. Strong — not in mine own 
self, but Heaven ; true 
To either function, holding it ; and thou 
Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify thy 

flesh. 
Not spirit — thou remainest Gilbert 
Foliot, 



A worldly follower of the worldly strong. 
I, bearing this great ensign, make it clear 
Under what Prince I fight. 

Foliot. My lord of York, 

Let us go in to the Council, where our 

bishops 
And our great lords will sit in judgment 

on him. 
Becket. Sons sit in judgment on their 

father ! — then 
The spire of Holy Church may prick the 

graves — 
Her crypt among the stars. Sign ? seal ? 

I promised 
The King to obey these customs, not yet 

written. 
Saving mine order ; true too, that when 

written 
I sign'd them — being a fool, as Foliot 

call'd me. 
I hold not by my signing. Get ye hence, 
Tell what I say to the King. 

[Exeimt Hereford, Foliot, and other 

Bishops. 
Roger of York. The Church will 

hate thee. [Exit. 

Becket. Serve my best friend and 

make him my worst foe ; 
Fight for the Church, and set the Church 

against me ! 
Herbert. To be honest is to set all 

knaves against thee. 
Ah ! Thomas, excommunicate them all ! 
Hereford {re-entering). I cannot 

brook the turmoil thou hast 

raised. 
I would, my lord Thomas of Canterbury, 
Thou wert plain Thomas and not Canter- 
bury, 
Or that thou wouldst deliver Canterbury 
To our King's hands again, and be at 

peace. 
Hilary {re-entering). For hath not 

thine ambition set the Church 
This day between the hammer and the 

anvil — 
Fealty to the King, obedience to thy- 
self? 
Herbert. What say the bishops ? 
Hilary. Some have pleaded for him, 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



711 



But the King rages — most are with the 

King ; 
And some are reeds, that one time sway 

to the current, 
And to the wind another. But we hold 
Thou art forsworn ; and no forsworn 

Archbishop 
Shall helm the Church. We therefore 

place ourselves 
Under the shield and safeguard of the 

Pope, 
And cite thee to appear before the Pope, 
And answer thine accusers. . . . Art 
thou deaf? 
Becket. I hear you. \Claih of arms. 
Hilary. Dost thou hear those others ? 
Becket. Ay ! 

Roger of York {re - entering). The 
King's ' God's eyes ! ' come now 
so thick and fast. 
We fear that he may reave thee of thine 

own. 
Come on, come on ! it is not fit for us 
To see the proud Archbishop mutilated. 
Say that he blind thee and tear out thy 
tongue. 
Becket. So be it. He begins at top 
with me : 
They crucified St. Peter downward. 

Roger of York. Nay, 

But for their sake who stagger betwixt 

thine 
Appeal, and Henry's anger, yield. 

Becket. Hence, Satan ! 

\Exit Roger of York. 

Fitzurse {re-entering). My lord, the 

King demands three hundred 

marks. 

Due from his castles of Berkhamstead and 

Eye 
When thou thereof wast warden. 

Becket. Tell the King 

I spent thrice that in fortifying his castles. 
De Tracy {re-entering). My lord, the 
King demands seven hundred 
marks. 
Lent at the siege of Thoulouse by the 
King. 
Becket. I led seven hundred knights 
and fought his wars. 



De Brito {re-entering). My lord, the 
King demands five hundred 
marks. 
Advanced thee at his instance by the 

Jews, 
For which the King was bound security. 
Becket. I thought it was a gift ; I 
thought it was a gift. 

Enter Lord Leicester {followed by 
Barons and Bishops) 

Leicester. My lord, I come unwillingly. 
The King 
Demands a strict account of all those 

revenues 
From all the vacant sees and abbacies, 
Which came into thy hands when Chan- 
cellor. 
Becket. How much might that amount 

to, my lord Leicester ? 
Leicester. Some thirty — forty thou- 
sand silver marks. 
Becket. Are these your customs ? O 
my good lord Leicester, 
The King and I were brothers. All I 

had 
I lavish 'd for the glory of the King ; 
I shone from him, for him, his glory, his 
Reflection : now the glory of the Church 
Hath swallow'd up the glory of the King ; 
I am his no more, but hers. Grant me 

one day 
To ponder these demands. 

Leicester. Hear first thy sentence ! 

The King and all his lords 

Becket. Son, first hear me ! 

Leicester. Nay, nay, canst thou, that 
boldest thine estates 
In fee and barony of the King, decline 
The judgment of the King? 

Becket. The King f I. hold 

Nothing in fee and barony of the King. 
Whatever the Church owns — she holds it in 
Free and perpetual alms, unsubject to 
One earthly sceptre. 

Leicester. Nay, but hear thy judgment. 

The King and all his barons 

Becket. Judgment ! Barons ! 

Who but the bridegroom dares to judge 
the bride, 



712 



BECKET 



ACT 



Or he the bridegroom may appoint ? Not 

he 
That is not of the house, but from the 

street 
Stain'd with the mire thereof. 

I had been so true 
To Henry and mine office that the King 
Would throne me in the great Arch- 

bishoprick : 
And I, that knew mine own infirmit)^, 
For the King's pleasure rather than God's 

cause 
Took it upon me — err'd thro' love of 

him. 
Now therefore God from me withdraws 

Himself, 
And the King too. 

What ! forty thousand marks ! 
Why thou, the King, the Pope, the 

Saints, the world. 
Know that when made Archbishop I was 

freed. 
Before the Prince and chief Justiciary, 
From every bond and debt and obliga- 
tion 
Incurr'd as Chancellor. 

Hear me, son. 

As gold 
Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel 

Cain, 
The soul the body, and the Church the 

Throne, 
I charge thee, upon pain of mine ana- 
thema. 
That thou obey, not me, but God in me, 
Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand 
By the King's censure, make my cry to 

the Pope, 
By whom I will be judged ; refer myself, 
The King, these customs, all the Church, 

to him, 
And under his authority — I depart. 

{^Going. 

[Leicester looks at him doiibtingly. 
Am I a prisoner ? 

Leicester. By St. Lazarus, no ! 

I am confounded by thee. Go in peace. 

De Broc. In peace now — but after. 

Take that for earnest. 
\^Flings a bone at him from the rushes. 



De Brito, Fitzurse^ De Tracy y and 
others {fiinging wisps of rushes). Ay, 
go in peace, caitiff, caitiff ! And that 
too, perjured prelate — and that, turncoat 
shaveling ! There, there, there 1 traitor, 
traitor, traitor ! 

Beckct. Mannerless wolves ! 

\Turning and facing them. 

Herbert. Enough, my lord, enough ! 

Becket. Barons of England and of 
Normandy, 
When what ye shake at doth but seem to 

fly, 

True test of coward, ye follow with a yell. 
But I that threw the mightiest knight of 
France, 

Sir Engelram de Trie, 

Herbert. Enough, my lord. 

Becket. More than enough. I play 
the fool again. 

Enter FIerald 

Herald. The King commands you. 
upon pain of death. 
That none should wrong or injure your 
Archbishop. 
Foliot. Deal gently with the young 
man Absalom. 
\Great doors of the Hall at the back 
open, and discover a crowd. They 
shotit : 
Blessed is he that cometh in the name of 
the Lord ! 



SCENE IV. — Refectory of the 
Monastery at Northampton 

A ba7iquet on the Tables 

Enter Becket. Becket's Retainers 

1st Retainer. Do thou speak first. 

2nd Retainer. Nay, thou ! Nay, , 
thou ! Hast not thou drawn the short | 
straw ? ! 

1st Retainer. My lord Archbishop, 
wilt thou permit us 

Becket. To speak without stammering 
and like a free man ? Ay. 

1st Retainer. My lord, permit us 
then to leave thy service. 



SCENE IV 



BECKET 



713 



Becket. When ? 

\st Retainer. Now. 

Becket. To-night ? 

\st Retainer. To-night, my lord. 

Becket. And why? 

ist Retainer. My lord, we leave thee 
not without tears. 

Becket. Tears ? Why not stay with 
me then ? 

1st Retainer. My lord, we cannot 
yield thee an answer altogether to thy 
satisfaction. 

Becket. I warrant you, or your own 
either. Shall I find you one ? The 
King hath frowned upon me. 

\st Retainer. That is not altogether 
our answer, my lord. 

Becket. No; yet all but all. Go, 
go ! Ye have eaten of my dish and 
drunken of my cup for a dozen years. 

1st Retainer. And so we have. We 
mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou not 
say, ' God bless you,' ere we go ? 

Becket. God bless you all ! God 
redden your pale blood ! But mine is 
human-red ; and when ye shall hear it is 
poured out upon earth, and see it mount- 
ing to Heaven, my God bless you, that 
seems sweet to you now, will blast and 
blind you like a curse. 

1st Retainer. We hope not, my lord. 
Our humblest thanks for your bless- 
ing. Farewell I {Exeunt Retainers. 

Becket. Farewell, friends ! farewell, 
swallows ! I wrong the bird ; she leaves 
only the nest she built, they leave the 
builder. Why ? Am I to be murdered 
to-night ? {^Knocking at the door. 

Attendant. Here is a missive left at 
the gate by one from the castle. 

Becket. Cornwall's hand or Leices- 
ter's : they write marvellously alike. 

{Reading. 

' Fly at once to France, to King Louis 
of France : there be those about o«r 
King who would have thy blood.' 

Was not my lord of Leicester bidden 
to our supper ? 

Attendant. Ay, my lord, and divers 



other earls and barons. But the hour 
is past, and our brother. Master Cook, 
he makes moan that all be a-getting 
cold. 

Becket. And I make my moan along 
with him. Cold after warm, winter 
after summer, and the golden leaves, 
these earls and barons, that clung to me, 
frosted off me by the first cold frown of 
the King. Cold, but look how the table 
steams, like a heathen altar ; nay, like 
the altar at Jerusalem. Shall God's 
good gifts be wasted ? None of them 
here ! Call in the poor from the streets, 
and let them feast. 

Herbert. That is the parable of our 
blessed Lord. 

Becket. And why should not the 
parable of our blessed Lord be acted 
again ? Call in the poor ! The Church 
is ever at variance with the kings, and 
ever at one with the poor. I marked a 
group of lazars in the marketplace — half- 
rag, half- sore — beggars, poor rogues 
(Heaven bless 'em) who never saw nor 
dreamed of such a banquet. I will 
amaze them. Call them in, I say. 
They shall henceforward be my earls and 
barons — our lords and masters in Christ 
Jesus. {Exit Herbert. 

If the King hold his purpose, I am 
myself a beggar. Forty thousand marks ! 
forty thousand devils — and these craven 
bishops ! 

A Poor Man {entering) 7vith his dog 

My lord Archbishop, may I come in 
with my poor friend, my dog? The 
King's verdurer caught him a-hunting in 
the forest, and cut off his paws. The 
dog followed his calling, my lord. I ha' 
carried him ever so many miles in my 
arms, and he licks my face and moans 
and cries out against the King. 

Becket. Better thy dog than thee. 
The King's courts would use thee worse 
than thy dog — they are too bloody. 
Were the Church king, it would be 
otherwise. Poor beast ! poor beast ! 
set him down. I will bind up his 



714 



BECKET 



ACT I. 



wounds with my napkin. Give him a 
bone, give him a bone ! Who misuses 
a dog would misuse a child — they cannot 
speak for themselves. Past help ! his 
paws are past help. God help him ! 

Enter the BEGGARS {and seat themselves 

at the Tables). Becket and Her- 
bert wait upon them. 

1st Beggar. Swine, sheep, ox — 
here's a French supper. When thieves 
fall out, honest men 

2nd Beggar. Is the Archbishop a 
thief who gives thee thy supper ? 

1st Beggar. Well, then, how does 
it go ? When honest men fall out, 
thieves — no, it can't be that. 

2nd Beggar. Who stole the widow's 
one sitting hen o' Sunday, when she was 
at mass ? 

1st Beggar. Come, come ! thou 
hadst thy share on her. Sitting hen ! 
Our Lord Becket's our great sitting-hen 
cock, and we shouldn't ha' been sitting 
here if the barons and bishops hadn't 
been a-sitting on the Archbishop. 

Becket. Ay, the princes sat in judg- 
ment against me, and the Lord hath 
prepared your table — Sederunt pj-incipes, 
edernnt paupeirs. 

A Voice. Becket, beware of the knife ! 

Becket. Who spoke ? 

'i,rd Beggar. Nobody, my lord. 
What's that, my lord ? 

Becket. Venison. 

yd Beggar. Venison ? 

Becket. Buck ; deer, as you call it. 

yd Beggar. King's meat ! By the 
Lord, won't we pray for your lord- 
ship ! 

Becket. And, my children, your 
prayers will do more for me in the day 
of peril that dawns darkly and drearily 
over the house of God — yea, and in the 
day of judgment also, than the swords of 
the craven sycophants would have done 
had they remained true to me whose 
bread they have partaken. I must leave 
you to your banquet. Feed, feast, and 
be merry. Herbert, lor the sake of the 



Church itself, if n»t for my own, I must 
fly to France to-night. Come with me. 
{^Exit xvith Herbert. 

yd Beggar. Here — all of you — 
my lord's health {they drink). Well — 
if that isn't goodly wine 

1st Beggar. Then there isn't a 
goodly wench to serve him with it : they 
were fighting for her to-day in the street. 

yd Beggar. Peace ! 

1st Beggar. The black sheep baaed 
to the miller's ewe lamb, 

The miller's away for to-night. 
Black sheep, quoth she, too black a sin 
for me. 

And what said the black sheep, my 
rnasters ? 

We can make a black sin white. 

yd Beggar. Peace ! 

1st Beggar. ' Ewe lamb, ewe lamb, 
I am here by the dam.' 

But the miller came home that night, 
And so dusted his back with the meal in 
his sack, 

That he made the black sheep white. 

yd Beggar. Be we not of the 
family? be we not a-supping with the 
head of the family? be we not in my 
lord's own refractory ? Out from among 
us ; thou art our black sheep. 

Enter thefotcr Knights 

Fitzurse. Sheep, said he ? And sheep 
without the shepherd, too. Where is my 
lord Archbishop ? Thou the lustiest and 
lousiest of this Cain's brotherhood, answer. 

yd Beggar. With Cain's answer, 
my lord. Am I his keeper? Thou 
shouldst call him Cain, not me. 

Fitziirse. So I do, for he would 
murder his brother the State. 

yd Beggar {rising and advancing). 
No, my lord ; but because the Lord hath 
set his mark upon him that no man should 
murder him. 

Fitzurse. Where is he ? where is he ? 

yd Beggar. With Cain belike, in 
the land of Nod, or in the land of France 
for aught I know. 



ACT U 



BECKET 



715 



Fitznrse. France ! Ha ! De Morville, 
Tracy, Brito — fled is he ? Cross swords 
all of you ! swear to follow him ! 
Remember the Queen ! 

\Thefou7- Knights o-oss their swords. 

De Brito. They mock us ; he is here. 
\All the Beggars rise and advance 
tipon them. 

Fitzttrse. Come, you filthy knaves, let 
us pass. 

yd Beggar. Nay, my lord, let us 
pass. We be a-going home after our 
supper in all humbleness, my lord ; 
for the Archbishop loves humbleness, 
my lord ; and though we be fifty to four, 
we daren't fight you with our crutches, 
my lord. There now, if thou hast not 
laid hands upon me ! and my fellows 
know that I am all one scale like a fish. 
I pray God I haven't given thee my 
leprosy, my lord. 

[Fitzurse shrinks fj'om him and another 
presses upon De Brito. 

De Brito. Away, dog ! 

Hfth Beggar. And I was bit by a 
mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog 
already by this token, that tho' I can 
drink wine I cannot bide water, my lord ; 
and I want to bite, I want to bite, and 
they do say the very breath catches. 

De Brito. Insolent clown. Shall I 
smite him with the edge of the sword ? 

De Morville. No, nor with the flat of 
it either. Smite the shepherd and the 
sheep are scattered. Smite the sheep and 
the shepherd will excommunicate thee. 

De Brito. Yet my fingers itch to beat 
him into nothing. 

5/A Beggar. So do mine, my lord. 
I was born with it, and sulphur won't 
bring it out o' me. But for all that the 
Archbishop washed my feet o' Tuesday. 
He likes it, my lord. 

dth Beggar. And see here, my lord, 
this rag fro' the gangrene i'.my leg. It's 
humbling — it smells o' human natur'. 
Wilt thou smell it, my lord ? for the 
Archbishop likes the smell on it, my lord ; 
for I be his lord and master i' Christ, 
my lord. 



De Morville. Faugh ! we shall all be 
poisoned. Let us go. 

{They draiv back, Beggars Jollozvi?ig. 

yth Beggar. My lord, I ha' three 
sisters a-dying at home o' the sweating 
sickness. They be dead while I be a- 
supping. 

Sth Beggar. And I ha' nine darters 
i' the spital that be dead ten times 
o'er i' one day wi' the putrid fever ; and 
I bring the taint on it along wi' me, for 
the Archbishop likes it, my lord. 

[Pressing upon the Knights till they 
disappear thro' the door. 

yd Beggar. Crutches, and itches, 
and leprosies, and ulcers, and gangrenes, 
and running sores, praise ye the Lord, for 
to-night ye have saved our Archbishop ! 

1st Beggar. I'll go back again. I 
hain't half done yet. 

Herbert of Bo sham {entering). My 
friends, the Archbishop bids you good 
night. He hath retired to rest, and being 
in great jeopardy of his life, he hath 
made his bed between the altars, from 
whence he sends me to bid you this 
night pray for him who hath fed you in 
the wilderness. 

yd Beggar. So we will — so we 
will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be 
king, and the Holy Father shall be king, 
and the world shall live by the King's 
venison and the bread o' the Lord, and 
there shall be no more poor for ever. 
Hurrah ! Vive le Roy ! That's the 
English of it. 

ACT II 

SCENE I.— Rosamund's Bower 

A Garden of Flozuers. In the midst a 
bank of wild -flowers 7vith a bench 
before it. 

Voices heard singing among the trees 
Duet 

I. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear 
in the pine overhead .'' 



7i6 



BECKET 



2. No ; but the voice of the deep as it 
hollows the cliffs of the land. 

1. Is there a voice coming up with the 

voice of the deep from the strand, 
One coming up with a song in the 
flush of the glimmering red ? 

2. Love that is born of the deep coming 

up with the sun from the sea. 

1. Love that can shape or can shatter a 

life till the life shall have fled ? 

2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that 

can lift up a life from the dead. 

1. Keep him away from the lone little 

isle. Let us be, let us be. 

2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him 

reign in it — he, it is he, 
Love that is born of the deep coming 
up with the sun from the sea. 

Enter Henry and Rosamund 

Rosamimd. Be friends with him again 

— I do beseech thee. 
Henry. With Becket ? I have but 

one hour with thee — 
Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the 

mitre 
Grappling the crown — and when I flee 

from this 
For a gasp of freer air, a breathing- 
while 
To rest upon thy bosom and forget him — 
Why thou, my bird, thou pipest Becket, 

Becket — 
Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's 

own bower, 
Must be the nightmare breaking on my 

peace 
With ' Becket.' 

Rosamund. O my life's life, not to 

smile 
Is all but death to me. My sun, no 

cloud ! 
Let there not be one frown in this one 

hour. 
Out of the many thine, let this be mine ! 
Look rather thou all-royal as when first 
I met thee. 

Henry. Where was that ? 
Rosamund. Forgetting that 

Forgets me too. 



Henry. Nay, I remember it well. 

There on the moors. 

Rosamund. And in a narrow path. 
A plover flew before thee. Then I saw 
Thy high black steed among the flaming 

furze, 
Like sudden night in the main glare of 

day. 
And from that height something was said 

to me 
I knew not what. 

Henry. I ask'd the way. 

Rosamund. I think so. 

So I lost mine. 

Henry. Thou wast too shamed to 

answer. 
Rosamimd. Too scared — so young ! 
Henry. The rosebud of my rose ! — 
Well, well, no more of him — I have sent 

his folk, 
His kin, all his belongings, overseas ; 
Age, orphans, and babe - breasting 

mothers — all 
By hundreds to him — there to beg, starve, 

die — 
So that the fool King Louis feed them 

not. 
The man shall feel that I can strike him 
yet. 
Rosafuzmd. Babes, orphans, mothers \ 

is that royal, Sire ? 
Henry. And I have been as royal 
with the Church. 
He shelter'd in the Abbey of Pontigny. 
There wore his time studying the canon 

law 
To work it against me. But since he 

cursed 
My friends at Veselay, I have let them 

know. 
That if they keep him longer as their 

guest, 
I scatter all their cowls to all the hells. 
Rosamund. And is that altogether 

royal E 
Henry. Traitress ! 

Rosamund. A faithful traitress to thy 

royal fame. 
Henry. Fame ! what care I for fame? 
Spite, ignorance, envy, 



BECKET 



111 



Yea, honesty too, paint her what way 

they will. 
Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow ; 
Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow ; 
And round and round again. What 

matters ? Royal — 
I mean to leave the royalty of my crown 
Unlessen'd to mine heirs. 

Rosamund. Still — thy fame too : 

I say that should be royal. 

Henry. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. 

Rosamujtd. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. A greater 

King 
Than thou art. Love, who cares not for 

the word. 
Makes * care not ' — care. There have I 

spoken true ? 
Henry. Care dwell with me for ever, 

when I cease 
To care for thee as ever ! 

Rosamund. No need ! no need ! . . . 
There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit ? 

. . . My bank 
Of wild-flowers \Jie sits\ At thy feet ! 
\_She sits at his feet. 
Henry. I bad them clear 

A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the wood. 
Not leave these countryfolk at court. 

Rosamund. I brought them 

In from the wood, and set them here. I 

love them 
More than the garden flowers, that seem 

at most 
Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not half 

speaking 
The language of the land. I love thein 

too. 
Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all 

the roses — 
Shame fall on those who gave it a dog's 

name — 
This wild one {picking a briar-rose) — 

nay, I shall not prick myself — 
Is sweetest. Do but smell ! 

Henry. Thou rose of the world ! 

Thou rose of all the roses ! {Miittering. 
I am not worthy of her — this beast- 
body 



That God has plunged my soul in — I, 

that taking 
The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so 

long 
Have wander'd among women, — a foul 

stream 
Thro' fever-breeding levels, — at her side, 
Among these happy dales, run clearer, 

drop 
The mud I carried, like yon brook, and 

glass 
The faithful face of heaven — 
\Looking at her, and unconsciously aloud, 
— thine ! thine ! 
Rosamtmd. I know it. 

Henry {mtcttering). Not hers. We 
have but one bond, her hate of 
Becket. 
Rosa7nund {half hearing). Nay I nay! 
what art thou muttering ? / hate 
Becket ? 
Henry {muttering). A sane and 
natural loathing for a soul 
Purer, and truer and nobler than herself; 
And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, 
A bastard hate born of a former love. 
Rosamund. My fault to name him ! 
O let the hand of one 
To whom thy voice is all her music, stay it 
But for a breath. 

{Puts her hand before his lips. 

Speak only of thy love. 

Why there — like some loud beggar at 

thy gate — 
The happy boldness of this hand hath 

won it 
Love's alms, thy kiss {looking at her hand) 
— Sacred ! I'll kiss it too. 

\_Kissing it. 
There ! wherefore dost thou so peruse it ? 

Nay, 
There may be crosses in my line of life. 
Henry. Not half her hand — no hand 
to mate with her. 
If it should come to that. 

Rosamund. With her ? with whom ? 
Hemy. Life on the hand is naked 
gipsy-stuff ; 
Life on the face, the brows — clear inno- 
cence ! 



7i5 



BECKET 



ACT II 



Vein'd marble — not a furrow yet — and 

hers [^Mtitleriiig. 

Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's 

web 

Rosannind [springing zip). Out of the 
cloud, m}^ Sun — out of the eclipse 
Narrowing my golden hour ! 

Henry. O Rosamund, 

I would be true — would tell thee all — and 

something 
I had to say — I love thee none the less — 
Which will so vex thee. 

Rosamtind. Something against me ? 
Henry. No, no, against myself. 
Rosamtmd. I will not hear it. 

Come, come, mine hour ! I bargain for 

mine hour. 
I'll call thee little Geoffrey. 
Henry. Call him ! 

Rosamund. Geoffrey ! 

Enter Geoffrey 

Henry. How the boy grows ! 

Rosamund. Ay, and his brows are 
thine ; 
The mouth is only Clifford, my dear 
father. 

Geoffrey. My liege, what hast thou 
brought me ? 

Henry. Venal imp ! 

What say'st thou to the Chancellorship of 
England ? 

Geoffrey. O yes, my liege. 

Henry. ' O yes, my liege ! ' He 

speaks 
As if it were a cake of gingerbread. 

Dost thou know, my boy, what it is to 
be Chancellor of England .? 

Geoffrey. Something good, or thou 
wouldst not give it me. 

Henry. It is, my boy, to side with 
the King when Chancellor, and then to 
be made Archbishop and go against the 
King who made him, and turn the world 
upside down. 

Geoffrey. I won't have it then. Nay, 
but give it me, and I promise thee not to 
turn the world upside down. 

Henry {giving him a ball). Here is a 
ball, my boy, thy world, to turn anyway 



and play with as thou wilt — which is more 
than I can do with mine. Go try it, play. 
\Exit Geoffrey. 
A pretty lusty boy. 

Rosamund. So like to thee ; 

Like to be liker. 

Henry. Not in my chin, I hope ! 

That threatens double. 

Rosaffiund. Thou art manlike 

perfect. 
Henry. Ay, ay, no doubt ; and were 
I humpt behind, 
Thou'dst say as much — the goodly way 

of women 
Who love, for which I love them. May 

God grant 
No ill befall or him or thee when I 
Am gone. 

Rosainund. Is he thy enemy ? 
Henry. He ? who ? ay ! 

Rosamund. Thine enemy knows the 

secret of my bower. 
Henry. And I could tear him asunder 
with wild horses 
Before he would betray it. Nay — no 

fear ! 
More like is he to excommunicate me. 
Rosa7mind. And I would creep, crawl 
over knife-edge flint 
Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay his 

hand 
Before he flash'd the bolt. 

Henry. And when he flash'd it 

Shrink from me, like a daughter of the 
Church. 
Rosamtind. Ay, but he will not. 
Henry. Ay ! but if he did ? 

Rosamund. O then ! O then ! I 
almost fear to say 
That my poor heretic heart would ex- 
communicate 
His excommunication, clinging to thee 
Closer than ever. 

Henry {raising Rosamund and kissing 
her). My brave-hearted Rose ! 
Hath he ever been to see thee ? 

Rosamund. Here ? not he. 

And it is so lonely here — no confessor. 
Henry. Thou shalt confess all thy 
sweet sins to me. 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



719 



Rosamund, Besides, we came away 
in such a heat, 
I brought not ev'n my crucifix. 

Henry. Take this. 

{Giving her the Ci-ucijix which Eleanor 

gave him. 
Rosamund. O beautiful I May I have 
it as mine, till mine 
Be mine again ? 

Henry {throwing it round her neck). 

Thine — as I am — till death ! 
Rosamund. Death ? no ! I'll have it 
with me in my shroud. 
And wake with it, and show it to all the 
Saints. 
Henry. Nay — I must go ; but when 
thou layest thy lip 
To this, remembering One who died for 

thee, 
Remember also one who lives for thee 
Out there in France ; for I must hence 

to brave 
The Pope, King Louis, and this turbulent 
priest. 
Rosammid [kneeling). O by thy love 
for me, all mine for thee, 
Fling not thy soul into the flames of hell : 
I kneel to thee — be friends with him 
again. 
Hejtry. Look, look ! if little Geoffrey 
have not tost 
His ball into the brook ! makes after it too 
To find it. Why, the child will drown 
himself. 
Rosamund. Geoffrey I Geoffrey ! 

\Exeu7it. 

SCENE IL— MONTMIRAIL 

* The Meeting of the Kings. ^ JOHN OF 
Oxford atid Henry. Crowd in the 
distance. 

John of Oxford. You have not crown'd 

young Henry yet, my liege ? 
Henry. Crown'd ! by God's eyes, we 
will not have him crown'd. 
I spoke of late to the boy, he answer 'd 

me, 
As if he wore the crown already — No, 



We will not have him crown'd. 

'Tis true what Becket told me, that the 
mother 

Would make him play his kingship 
against mine. 
John of Oxford. Not have him 

crown'd ? 
Henry. Not now — not yet ! and 

Becket — 

Becket should crown him were he crown'd 
at all : 

But, since we would be lord of our own 
manor. 

This Canterbury, like a wounded deer. 

Has fled our presence and our feeding- 
grounds. 
John of Oxford. Cannot a smooth 
tongue lick him whole again 

To serve your will ? 

Henry. He hates my will, not me. 
John of Oxford, There's York, my 

liege. 
Henry. But England scarce would 
hold 

Young Henry king, if only crown'd by 
York, 

And that would stilt up York to twice 
himself. 

There is a movement yonder in the 
crowd — 

See if our pious — what shall I call him, 
John ?— 

Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn suze- 
rain, 

Be yet within the field. 
John of Oxford. I will. {Exit. 

Henry. Ay ! Ay ! 

Mince and go back ! his politic Holiness 

Hath all but climb'd the Roman perch 
again. 

And we shall hear him presently with 
clapt wing 

Crow over Barbarossa — at last tongue- 
free 

To blast my realms with excommunication 

And interdict. I must patch up a peace — 

A piece in this long-tugged-at, threadbare- 
worn 

Quarrel of Crown and Church — to rend 
again. 



720 



BECKET 



His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' 

shoals, 
Nor I. The citizen's heir hath conquer'd 

me 
For the moment. So we make our 

peace with him. 

E7iter Louis 

Brother of France, what shall be done 

with Becket ? 
Louis. The holy Thomas ! Brother, 

you have traffick'd 
Between the Emperor and the Pope, 

between 
The Pope and Antipope — a perilous game 
For men to play with God. 

Henry. Ay, ay, good brother. 

They call you the Monk-King. 

Louis. Who calls me ? she 

That was my wife, now yours ? You 

have her Duchy, 
The point you aim'd at, and pray God 

she prove 
True wife to you. You have had the 

better of us 
In secular matters. 

Henry. Come, confess, good brother, 
You did your best or worst to keep her 

Duchy. 
Only the golden Leopard printed in it 
Such hold -fast claws that you perforce 

again 
Shrank into France. Tut, tut ! did we 

convene 
This conference but to babble of our wives? 
They are plagues enough in-door. 

Louis. We fought in the East, 

And felt the sun of Antioch scald our mail, 
And push'd our lances into Saracen 

hearts. 
We never hounded on the State at home 
To spoil the Church. 

Henry. How should you see this 

rightly ? 
Louis. Well, well, no more I I am 

proud of my ' Monk-King,' 
Whoever named me ; and, brother, Holy 

Church 
May rock, but will not wreck, nor our 

Archbishop 



Stagger on the slope decks for any rough 

sea 
Blown by the breath of kings. We do 

forgive you 
For aught you wrought against us. 

[Henry holds tip his hand. 

Nay, I pray you. 

Do not defend yourself. You will do 

much 
To rake out all old dying heats, if you, 
At my requesting, will but look into 
The wrongs you did him, and restore his 

kin, 
Reseat him on his throne of Canterbury, 
Be, both, the friends you were. 

Henry. The friends we were ! 

Co-mates we were, and had our sport 

together, 
Co-kings we were, and made the laws 

together. 
The world had never seen the like before. 
You are too cold to know the fashion of 

it. 
Well, well, we will be gentle with him, 

gracious — 
Most gracious. 

Enter Becket, after him, John of 
Oxford, Roger of York, Gilbert 
FoLiOT, De Broc, Fitzurse, etc. 

Only that the rift he made 
May close between us, here I am wholly 

king. 
The word should come from him. 

Becket {kneeling). Then, my dear liege, 
I here deliver all this controversy 
Lito your royal hands. 

Henjy. Ah, Thomas, Thomas, 

Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. 

Becket [risijig). Saving God's honour ! 

Henry. Out upon thee, man ! 

Saving the Devil's honour, his yes and no. 

Knights, bishops, earls, this London 

spawn — by Mahound, 
I had sooner have been born a Mussul- 
man — 
Less clashing with their priests — 
I am half-way down the slope — will no 

man stay me ? 
I dash myself to pieces — I stay myself — 



BECKET 



721 



Puff — it is gone. You, Master Becket, you 
That owe to me your power over me — 
Nay, nay — 
Brother of France, you have taken, 

cherish'd him 
Who thief-like fled from his own church 

by night. 
No man pursuing. I would have had 

him back. 
Take heed he do not turn and rend you 

too : 
For whatsoever may displease him — that 
Is clean against God's honour — a shift, a 

trick 
Whereby to challenge, face me out of all 
My regal rights. Yet, yet — that none 

may dream 
I go against God's honour — ay, or him- 
self 
In any reason, choose 
A hundred of" the wisest heads from 

England, 
A hundred, too, from Normandy and 

Anjou : 
Let these decide on what was customary 
In olden days, and all the Church of 

France 
Decide on their decision, I am content. 
More, what the mightiest and the holiest 
Of all his predecessors may have done 
Ev'n to the least and meanest of my own. 
Let him do the same to me — I am con- 
tent. 
Louis. Ay, ay ! the King humbles 

himself enough. 
Becket. [Aside] Words ! he will 

wriggle out of them like an eel 
When the time serves. (A/oud) My 

lieges and my lords. 
The thanks of Holy Church are due to 

those 
That went before us for their work, which 

we 
Inheriting reap an easier harvest. 

Yet 

Louis. My lord, will you be greater 

than the Saints, 
More than St. Peter ? whom what is 

it you doubt ? 
Behold your peace at hand. 
T 



Becket. I say that those 

Who went before us did not wholly clear 
The deadly growths of earth, which 

Hell's own heat 
So dwelt on that they rose and darken'd 

Heaven. 
Yet they did much. Would God they 

had torn up all 
By the hard root, which shoots again ; 

our trial 
Had so been less ; but, seeing they were 

men 
Defective or excessive, must we follow 
All that they overdid or underdid ? 
Nay, if they were defective as St. Peter 
Denying Christ, who yet defied the 

tyrant. 
We hold by his defiance, not his defect. 

good son Louis, do not counsel me, 
No, to suppress God's honour for the sake 
Of any king that breathes. No, God 

forbid ! 
Henry. No ! God forbid ! and turn 

me Mussulman ! 
No God but one, and Mahound is his 

prophet. 
But for your Christian, look you, you 

shall have 
None other God but me — me, Thomas, 

son 
Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. 

Out! 

1 hear no more. {Exit. 

Louis. Our brother's anger puts him, 
Poor man, beside himself — not wise. 

My lord. 
We have claspt your cause, believing 

that our brother 
Had wrong'd you ; but this day he 

proffer'd peace. 
You will have war ; and tho' we grant 

the Church 
King over this world's kings, yet, my 

good lord. 
We that are kings are something in this 

world. 
And so we pray you, draw yourself from 

under 
The wings of France. We shelter you 

no more. \Exit. 

3 A 



722 



BECKET 



ACT II 



John of Oxford. I am glad that 

France hath scouted him at last : 

I told the Pope what manner of man he 

was. \^Exit. 

Roger of York. Yea, since he flouts 

the will of either realm, 

Let either cast him away like a dead dog ! 

lExit. 
Foliot, Yea, let a stranger spoil his 
heritage, 
And let another take his bishoprick ! 

lExit. 
De Broc. Our castle, my lord, be- 
longs to Canterbury. 
I pray you come and take it. \^Exit. 

Fitztirse. When you will. \Exit. 

Becket. Cursed be John of Oxford, 
Roger of York, 
And Gilbert Foliot ! cursed those De 

Brocs 
That hold our Saltwood Castle from our 

see ! 
Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of them 
That sow this hate between my lord and 
me ! 
Voices from the Crowd. Blessed be 
the Lord Archbishop, who hath with- 
stood two Kings to their faces for the 
honour of God. 

Becket. Out of the mouths of babes 
and sucklings, praise ! 
I thank you, sons ; when kings but hold 

by crowns. 
The crowd that hungers for a crown in 

Heaven 
Is my true king. 

Herbert. Thy true King bad thee be 

A fisher of men ; thou hast them in thy 

net. 

Becket. I am too like the King here ; 

both of us 

Too headlong for our office. Better have 

been 
A fisherman at Bosham, my good Herbert, 
Thy birthplace — the sea-creek — the petty 

rill 
That falls into it — the green field — the 

gray church — 
The simple lobster - basket, and the 
mesh — 



The more or less of daily labour done — 
The pretty gaping bills in the home-nest 
Piping for bread — the daily want sup- 
plied — 
The daily pleasure to supply it. 

Herbert. Ah, Thomas, 

You had not borne it, no, not for a day. 

Becket. Well, maybe, no. 

Herbert. But bear with Walter Map, 
For here he comes to comment on the 
time. 

Enter Walter Map 

Walter Map. Pity, my lord, that you 
have quenched the warmth of France to- 
ward you, tho' His Holiness, after much 
smouldering and smoking, be kindled 
again upon your quarter. 

Becket. Ay, if he do not end in 

smoke again. 
Walter Map. My lord, the fire, when 
first kindled, said to the smoke, ' Go up, 
my son, straight to Heaven.' And the 
smoke said, ' I go ' ; but anon the North- 
east took and turned him South-west, 
then the South-west turned him North- 
east, and so of the other winds ; but it 
was in him to go up straight if the time 
had been quieter. Your lordship affects 
the unwavering perpendicular ; but His 
Holiness, pushed one way by the Em- 
pire and another by England, if he 
move at all, Heaven stay him, is fain to 
diagonalise. 

Herbert. Diagonalise ! thou art a 

word-monger. 
Our Thomas never will diagonalise. 
Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. 
Diagonalise ! 

Walter Map. Is the world any the 
worse for my verses if the Latin rhymes 
be rolled out from a full mouth ? or any j 
harm done to the people if my jest be in 
defence of the Truth ? 

Becket. Ay, if the jest be so done that 

the people 
Delight to wallow in the grossness of it. 
Till Truth herself be shamed of her 

defender. 
Non defeiisoribus istis, Walter Map. 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



723 



Walter Map. Is that my case ? so if 
the city be sick, and I cannot call the 
kennel sweet, your lordship would sus- 
pend me from verse-writing, as you sus- 
pended yourself after sub-writing to the 
customs. 

Becket. I pray God pardon mine in- 
firmity. 
Walier Map. Nay, my lord, take 
heart ; for tho' you suspended yourself, 
the Pope let you down again ; and tho' 
you suspend Foliot or another, the Pope 
will not leave them in suspense, for 
the Pope himself is always in suspense, 
like Mahound's coffin hung between 
heaven and earth — always in suspense, 
like the scales, till the weight of Germany 
or the gold of England brings one of 
them down to the dust — always in sus- 
pense, like the tail of the horologe — to 
and fro — tick-tack— we make the time, 
we keep the time, ay, and we serve the 
time ; for I have heard say that if you 
boxed the Pope's ears with a purse, you 
might stagger him, but he would pocket 
the purse. No saying of mine — Jocelyn 
of Salisbury. But the King hath bought 
half the College of Redhats. He warmed 
to you to-day, and you have chilled him 
again. Yet you both love God. Agree 
with him quickly again, even for the sake 
of the Church. My one grain of good 
counsel which you will not swallow. I 
hate a split between old friendships as I 
hate the dirty gap in the face of a Cis- 
tercian monk, that will swallow anything. 
Farewell. \^Extt. 

Becket. Map scoffs at Rome. I all 
but hold with Map. 
Save for myself no Rome were left in 

England, 
All had been his. Why should this 

Rome, this Rome, 
Still choose Barabbas rather than the 

Christ, 
Absolve the left-hand thief and damn the 

right ? 
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege, 
Which even Peter had not dared? condemn 
The Ijlameless exile ? — 



Herbert. Thee, thou holy Thomas ! 
I would that thou hadst been the Holy 

Father. 
Becket. I would have done my most 

to keep Rome holy, 
I would have made Rome know she still 

is Rome — 
Who stands aghast at her eternal self 
And shakes at mortal kings — her vacilla- 
tion. 
Avarice, craft — O God, how many an 

innocent 
Has left his bones upon the way to Rome 
Unwept, uncared for. Yea — on mine 

own self 
The King had had no power except for 

Rome. 
'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine 

exile, 
But Rome, Rome, Rome ! 

Herbert. My lord, I see this Louis 

Returning, ah ! to drive thee from his 

realm. 
Becket. He said as much before. 

Thou art no prophet. 
Nor yet a prophet's son. 

Herbert. Whatever he say, 

Deny not thou God's honour for a king. 
The King looks troubled. 

Re-enter King Louis 
Lotiis. ]My dear lord Archbishop, 

I learn but now that those poor Poite- 

vins, 
That in thy cause were stirr'd against 

King Henry, 
Have been, despite his kingly promise 

given 
To our own self of pardon, evilly used 
And put to pain. I have lost all trust 

in him. 
The Church alone hath eyes — and now 

I see 
That I was blind — suffer the phrase — 

surrendering 
God's honour to the pleasure of a man. 
Forgive me and absolve me, holy father. 

\^Kneels. 
Becket. Son, I absolve thee in the 

name of God. 



724 



BECKET 



Louis {rising). Return to Sens, where 
we will care for you. 
The wine and wealth of all our France 

are yours ; 

Rest in our realm, and be at peace with 

all. {^Exeunt. 

Voices from the Crowd. Long live 

the good King Louis ! God bless the 

great Archbishop ! 

Re-enter Henry aw^ John of Oxford 

Henry {looking after King Louis and 
Becket). Ay, there they go — both 
backs are turn'd to me — 

Why then I strike into my former path 

For England, crown young Henry there, 
and make 

Our waning Eleanor all but love me ! 

John, 

Thou hast served me heretofore with 
Rome — and well. 

They call thee John the Swearer. 
John of Oxford. For this reason, 

That, being ever duteous to the King, 

I evermore have sworn upon his side, 

And ever mean to do it. 

Henry {claps him on the shoulder). 
Honest John ! 

To Rome again ! the storm begins again. 

Spare not thy tongue ! be lavish with 
our coins. 

Threaten our junction with the Emperor 
—flatter 

And fright the Pope — bribe all the Car- 
dinals — leave 

Lateran and Vatican in one dust of gold — 

Swear and unswear, state and misstate 
thy best ! 

I go to have young Henry crown'd by 
York. 

ACT HI 

SCENE I.— The Bower 

Henry ajid Rosamund 

Henry. All that you say is just. I 
cannot answer it 
Till better times, when I shall put 
awav 



Rosamund. What will you put away ? 

Henry. That which you ask me 

Till better times. Let it content you 

now 
There is no woman that I love so well. 
Rosa??i2ind. No woman but should be 

content with that — 
Henry. And one fair child to fondle ! 
Rosatnund. O yes, the child 

We waited for so long — heaven's gift at 

last— 
And how you doated on him then ! To- 
day 
I almost fear'd your kiss was colder — 

yes — 
But then the child is such a child. What 

chance 
That he should ever spread into the man 
Here in our silence ? I have done my 

best. 
I am not learn'd. 

Henry. I am the King, his father, 

And I will look to it. Is our secret ours ? 

Have you had any alarm ? no stranger ? 

Rosafjinnd. No. 

The warder of the bower hath given 

himself 
Of late to wine. I sometimes think he 

sleeps 
Wlien he should watch ; and yet what 

fear ? the people 
Believe the wood enchanted. No one 

comes, 
Nor foe nor friend ; his fond excess of 

wine 
Springs from the loneliness of my poor 

bower. 
Which weighs even on me. 

Hejny. Yet these tree-towers, 

Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles, — 

the voice 
Of the perpetual brook, these golden 

slopes 
Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that was 

your saying, 
All pleased you so at first. 

Rosamund. Not now so much. 

My Anjou bower was scarce as beautiful. 
But you were oftener there. I have 

none but you. 



BECKET 



725 



The brook's voice is not yours, and no 

flower, not 
The sun himself, should he be changed 

to one, 
Could shine away the darkness of that 

gap 
Left by the lack of love. 

Henry. The lack of love ! 

Rosamund. Of one we love. Nay, I 
would not be bold, 

Yet hoped ere this you might 

\^Looks earnestly at him. 
Henry. Anything further ? 

Rosamund. Only my best bower- 
maiden died of late. 
And that old priest whom John of Salis- 
bury trusted 
Hath sent another. 

Henry. Secret ? 

Rosamund. I but ask'd her 

One question, and she primm'd her 

mouth and put 
Her hands together — thus — and said, 

God help her. 
That she was sworn to silence. 

Henry. What did you ask her ? 

Rosamund. Some daily something- 
nothing. 
Henry. Secret, then? 

Rosamund. I do not love her. Must 
you go, my liege. 
So suddenly ? 

Hemy. I came to England suddenly, 
And on a great occasion sure to wake 

As great a wrath in Becket 

Rosamund. Always Becket ! 

He always comes between us. 

Henry. — And to meet it 

I needs must leave as suddenly. It is 

raining, 
Put on your hood and see me to the 
bounds. \Exemit. 

Margery {singing behind scene). 
Babble in bower 

Under the rose ! 
Bee mustn't buzz, 

Whoop — but he knows. 

Kiss me, little one, 
Nobody near ! 



Grasshopper, grasshopper. 
Whoop — you can hear. 

Kiss in the bower. 

Tit on the tree ! 
Bird mustn't tell, 

Whoop — he can see. 

Enter Margery 
I ha' been but a week here and I ha' 
seen what I ha' seen, for to be sure it's 
no more than a week since our old 
Father Philip that has confessed our 
mother for twenty years, and she was 
hard put to it, and to speak truth, nigh 
at the end of our last crust, and that 
mouldy, and she cried out on him to put 
me forth in the world and to make me a 
woman of the world, and to win my own 
bread, whereupon he asked our mother 
if I could keep a quiet tongue i' my head, 
and not speak till I was spoke to, and I 
answered for myself that I never spoke 
more than was needed, and he told me 
he would advance me to the service of a 
great lady, and took me ever so far away, 
and gave me a great pat o' the cheek for 
a pretty wench, and said it was a pity to 
blindfold such eyes as mine, and such to 
be sure they be, but he blinded 'em for 
all that, and so brought me no-hows as 
I may say, and the more shame to him 
after his promise, into a garden and not 
into the world, and bad me whatever I 
saw not to speak one word, an' it 'ud be 
well for me in the end, for there were 
great ones who would look after me, and 
to be sure I ha' seen great ones to-day — 
and then not to speak one word, for 
that's the rule o' the garden, tho' to be 
sure if I had been Eve i' the garden I 
shouldn't ha' minded the apple, for what's 
an apple, you know, save to a child, and 
I'm no child, but more a woman o' the 
world than my lady here, and I ha' seen 
what I ha' seen — tho' to be sure if I 
hadn't minded it we should all on us 
ha' had to go, bless the Saints, wi' bare 
backs, but the backs 'ud ha' counte- 
nanced one another, and belike it 'ud ha' 
been always summer, and anyhow I am 



726 



BECKET 



ACT 111 



as well-shaped as my lady here, and I 
ha' seen what I ha' seen, and what's the 
good of my talking to myself, for here 
comes my lady {enter Rosamund), and, 
my lady, tho' I shouldn't speak one 
word, I wish you joy o' the King's 
brother. 

Rosamund. What is it you mean ? 

Margery. I mean your goodman, 
your husband, my lady, for I saw your 
ladyship a-parting wi' him even now i' 
the coppice, when I was a-getting o' 
bluebells for your ladyship's nose to 
smell on — and I ha' seen the King once 
at Oxford, and he's as like the King as 
fingernail to fingernail, and I thought at 
first it was the King, only you know the 
King's married, for King Louis 

Rosamund. Married ! 

Margery. Years and years, my lady, 
for her husband, King Louis 

Rosamund. Hush ! 

Margcjy. — And I thought if it were 
the King's brother he had a better bride 
than the King, for the people do say 
that his is bad beyond all reckoning, 
and 

Rosamund. The people lie. 

Margery. Very like, my lady, but 
most on 'em know an honest woman and 
a lady when they see her, and besides 
they say, she makes songs, and that's 
against her, for I never knew an honest 
woman that could make songs, tho' to be 
sure our mother 'ill sing me old songs by 
the hour, but then, God help her, she 
had 'em from her mother, and her mother 
from her mother back and back for ever 
so long, but none on 'em ever made 
songs, and they were all honest. 

Rosamund. Go, you shall tell me of 
her some other time. 

Margery. There's none so much to 
tell on her, my lady, only she kept the 
seventh commandment better than some 
I know on, or I couldn't look your lady- 
ship i' the face, and she brew'd the best 
ale in all Glo'ster, that is to say in her 
time when she had the * Crown.' 

Rosamund. The crown ! who ? 



Margery. Mother. 

Rosamund. I mean her whom you 

call — fancy — my husband's brother's wife. 

Margery. Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, 

my lady ; and tho' I be sworn not to 

speak a word, I can tell you all about 

her, if 

Rosamund. No word now. I am 
faint and sleepy. Leave me. Nay — 
go. What I will you anger me ? 

{^Exit Margery. 
He charged me not to question any of 

those 
About me. Havel? no! shequestion'd 

me. 
Did she not slander hitn ? Should she 

stay here ? 
May she not tempt me, being at my 

side, 
To question her'> Nay, can I send her 

hence 
Without his kingly leave ? I am in the 

dark. 
I have lived, poor bird, from cage to 

cage, and known 
Nothing but him — happy to know no 

more, 
So that he loved me — and he loves me — 

yes, 
And bound me by his love to secrecy 
Till his own time. 

Eleanor, Eleanor, have I 
Not heard ill things of her in France ? 

Oh, she's 
The Queen of France. I see it — some 

confusion. 
Some strange mistake. I did not hear 

aright. 
Myself confused with parting from the 

King. 
Margery {behind scene). Bee mustn't 
buzz, 

Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. Yet her — what her ? he 

hinted of some her — 
When he was here before — 
Something that would displease me. 

Hath he stray'd 
From love's clear path into the common 

bush. 



BECKET 



727 



And, being scratch'd, returns to his true 

rose, 
Who hath not thorn enough to prick him 

for it, 
Ev'n with a word ? 

Margery {behind scene). Bird mustn't 
tell. 
Whoop — he can see. 
Rosamund. I would not hear him. 
Nay — there's more — he frown'd 
' No mate for her, if it should come to 

that '— 
To that — to what ? 

Margery {behind sce7ie). Whoop — but 
he knows. 
Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. O God ! some dreadful 
truth is breaking on me — 
Some dreadful thing is coming on me. 

{^Enter Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 

Geoffrey. What are you crying for, 

when the sun shines ? 
Rosamund. Hath not thy father left 

us to ourselves ? 
Geoffrey. Ay, but he's taken the rain 
with him. I hear Margery : I'll go play 
with her. \_Exit Geoffrey. 

Rosamund. Rainbow, stay, 
Gleam upon gloom, 
Bright as my dream, 
Rainbow, stay ! 
But it passes away. 
Gloom upon gleam, 
Dark as my doom — 
O rainbow stay. 



SCENE II.— Outside the Woods 
NEAR Rosamund's Bower 

Eleanor. Fitzurse 

Eleanor. Up from the salt lips of the 

land we two 
Have track'd the King to this dark inland 

wood ; 
And somewhere hereabouts he vanish'd. 

Here 
His turtle builds : his exit is our adit : 



Watch ! he will out again, and presently, 
Seeing he must to Westminster and crown 
Young Henry there to-morrow. 

Fitztirse. We have watch'd 

So long in vain, he hath pass'd out again, 
And on the other side. 

[^ great horn winded. 
Hark ! Madam ! 
Eleanor. Ay, 

How ghostly sounds that horn in the 
black wood ! 

\A countryman flying. 
Whither away, man ? what are you flying 
from ? 
Cozintryman. The witch ! the witch ! 
she sits naked by a great heap of gold in 
the middle of the wood, and when the 
horn sounds she comes out as a wolf. 
Get you hence ! a man passed in there 
to-day : I holla'd to him, but he didn't 
hear me : he'll never out again, the witch 
has got him. I daren't stay — I daren't 
stay ! 

Eleanor. Kind of the witch to give 

thee warning tho'. \^I\Ia>i flies. 

Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's fear 

Our woodland Circe that hath witch'd 

the King? 

[^Horn sounded. Another flying. 
Fitztirse. Again ! stay, fool, and tell 

me why thou fliest. 
Countiyman. Fly thou too. The 
King keeps his forest head of game here, 
and when that horn sounds, a score of 
wolf-dogs are let loose that will tear thee 
piecemeal. Linger not till the third 
horn. Fly ! {^Exit. 

Eleanor. This is the likelier tale. 
We have hit the place. 
Now let the King's fine game look to 
itself. {Ho7'n. 

Fitzurse. Again ! — 
And far on in the dark heart of the wood 
I hear the yelping of the hounds of hell. 
Eleanor. I have my dagger here to 

still their throats. 
Fitzurse. Nay, Madam, not to-night 
— the night is falling. 
What can be done to-night ? 

Eleanor. Well — well — away. 



728 



BECKET 



SCENE III.— Traitor's Meadow at 
Freteval. Pavilions and Tents 
OF the English and French 
Baronage. 

Becket and Herbert of Bosham 

Becket. See here ! 
Herbert. What's here ? 

Becket. A notice from the priest, 

To whom our John of Sahsbury com- 
mitted 
The secret of the bower, that our wolf- 
Queen 
Is prowhng round the fold. I should be 

back 
In England ev'n for this. 

Herbert. These are by-things 

In the great cause. 

Becket. The by-things of the Lord 

Are the wrong'd innocences that will cry 
From all the hidden by-ways of the 

world 
In the great day against the wronger. I 

know 
Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, before 
The Church should suffer wrong ! 

Herbert. Do you see, my lord, 

There is the King talking with Walter 
Map? 
Becket. He hath the Pope's last 
letters, and they threaten 
The immediate thunder-blast of interdict : 
Yet he can scarce be touching upon those, 
Or scarce would smile that fashion. 

Herbert. Winter sunshine ! 

Beware of opening out thy bosom to it, 
Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock 

should catch 
An after ague-fit of trembling. Look ! 
He bows, he bares his head, he is coming 

hither. 
Still with a smile. 

E7iter King Henry and Walter Map 

Henry. We have had so many hours 

together, Thomas, 
So many happy hours alone together, 
That I would speak with you once more 

alone. 



Becket. My liege, your will and 
happiness are mine. 

{^Exetint King and Becket. 

Herbert. The same smile still. 

Walter Map. Do you see that great 
black cloud that hath come over the sun 
and cast us all into shadow ? 

Herbert. And feel it too. 

Walter Map. And see you yon side- 
beam that is forced from under it, and 
sets the church-tower over there all a- 
hell-fire as it were ? 

Herbert. Ay. 

Walter Map. It is this black, bell- 
silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hindering 
interdict that hath squeezed out this side- 
smile upon Canterbury, whereof may 
come conflagration. Were I Thomas, I 
wouldn't trust it. Sudden change is a 
house on sand ; and tho' I count Henry 
honest enough, yet when fear creeps in 
at the front, honesty steals out at the 
back, and the King at last is fairly scared 
by this cloud — this interdict. I have 
been more for the King than the Church 
in this matter — yea, even for the sake of 
the Church : for, truly, as the case stood, 
you had safelier have slain an archbishop 
than a she-goat : but our recoverer and 
upholder of customs hath in this crowning 
of young Henry by York and London 
so violated the immemorial usage of the 
Church, that, like the gravedigger's child 
I have heard of, trying to ring the bell, 
he hath half-hanged himself in the rope 
of the Church, or rather pulled all the 
Church with the Holy Either astride of 
it down upon his own head. 

Herbej't. Were you there ? 

Walter Map. In the church rope ? — 
no. I was at the crowning, for I have 
pleasure in the pleasure of crowds, and 
to read the faces of men at a great show. 

Hei'bert. And how did Roger of York 
comport himself? 

Walter Map. As magnificently and 
archiepiscopally as our Thomas would 
have done : only there was a dare-devil 
in his eye — I should say a dare-Becket. 
He thought less of two kings than of one 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



729 



Roger the king of the occasion. Foliot 
is the holier man, perhaps the better. 
Once or twice there ran a twitch across 
his face as who should say what's to 
follow? but Salisbury was a calf cowed 
by Mother Church, and every now and 
then glancing about him like a thief at 
night when he hears a door open in the 
house and thinks ' the master.' 

Herbert. And the father-king? 

Walter Map. The father's eye was so 
tender it would have called a goose off 
the green, and once he strove to hide 
his face, like the Greek king when his 
daughter was sacrificed, but he thought 
better of it : it was but the sacrifice of a 
kingdom to his son, a smaller matter ; 
but as to the young crownling himself, he 
looked so malapert in the eyes, that had 
I fathered him I had given him more of 
the rod than the sceptre. Then followed 
the thunder of the captains and the 
shouting, and so we came on to the 
banquet, from whence there puffed out 
such an incense of unctuosity into the 
nostrils of our Gods of Church and State, 
that LucuUus or Apicius might have 
sniffed it in their Hades of heathenism, 
so that the smell of their own roast had 
not come across it 

Herbert. Map, tho' you make your 
butt too big, you overshoot it. 

Walter Map. ■ — For as to the fish, 
they de-miracled the miraculous draught, 
and might have sunk a navy 

Herbert. There again, Goliasing and 
Goliathising ! 

Walter Map. — And as for the flesh 
at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with all 
manner of game, and four-footed things, 
and fowls 

Herbert. And all manner of creeping 
things too ? 

Walter Map. — Well, there were 
Abbots — but they did not bring their 
women ; and so we were dull enough at 
first, but in the end we flourished out 
into a merriment ; for the old King 
would act servitor and hand a dish to 
his son ; whereupon my Lord of York — 



his fine -cut face bowing and beaming 
with all that courtesy which hath less 
loyalty in it than the backward scrape of 
the clown's heel — 'great honour,' says 
he, 'from the King's self to the King's 
son.' Did you hear the young King's 
quip? 

Herbert. No, what was it ? 

Walter Map. Glancing at the days 
when his father was only Earl of Anjou, 
he answered : — ' Should not an earl's son 
wait on a king's son ? ' And when the 
cold corners of the King's mouth began 
to thaw, there was a great motion of 
laughter among us, part real, part child- 
like, to be freed from the dulness — part 
royal, for King and kingling both 
laughed, and so we could not but laugh, 
as by a royal necessity — part childlike 
again — when we felt we had laughed too 
long and could not stay ourselves — many 
midriff-shaken even to tears, as springs 
gush out after earthquakes — but from 
those, as I said before, there may come a 
conflagration — tho', to keep the figure 
moist and make it hold water, I should 
say rather, the lacrymation of a lamenta- 
tion ; but look if Thomas have not flung 
himself at the King's feet. They have 
made it up again — for the moment. 

Herbert. Thanks to the blessed Mag- 
dalen, whose day it is. 

Re-enter Henry and Becket. {During 
their conference the Barons and 
Bishops of France and England 
come in at back of stage. ) 
Becket. Ay, King ! for in thy king- 
dom, as thou knowest, 
The spouse of the Great King, thy King, 

hath fallen — 
The daughter of Zion lies beside the 

way — 
The priests of Baal tread her underfoot — 
The golden ornaments are stolen from 

her 

Henry. Have I not promised to 
restore her, Thomas, 
And send thee back again to Canter- 
bury? 



730 



BECKET 



Becket. Send back again those exiles 
of my kin 
Who wander famine - wasted thro' the 
world. 
Henry. Have I not promised, man, 

to send them back ? 
Becket. Yet one thing more. Thou 
hast broken thro' the pales 
Of privilege, crowning thy young son by 

York, 
London and Salisbury — not Canterbury. 
Hemy. York crown'd the Conqueror 

— not Canterbury. 
Becket. There was no Canterbury in 

William's time. 
Henry. But Hereford, you know, 

crown'd the first Henry. 
Becket. But Ansel m crown'd this 

Henry o'er again. 
Heniy. And thou shalt crown my 

Henry o'er again. 
Becket. And is it then with thy good- 
will that I 
Proceed against thine evil councillors, 
And hurl the dread ban of the Church 

on those 
Who made the second mitre play the first, 
And acted me ? 

Henry. Well, well, then — have thy 
way ! 
It may be they were evil councillors. 
What more, my lord Archbishop ? What 

more, Thomas? 
I make thee full amends. Say all ' thy 

say, 
But blaze not out before the Frenchmen 
here. 
Becket. More ? Nothing, so thy 

promise be thy deed. 
Henry {holding out his hand). Give 
me thy hand. My Lords of 
France and England, 
My friend of Canterbury and myself 
Are now once more at perfect amity. 
Unkingly should I be, and most un- 

knightly, 
Not striving still, however much in vain. 
To rival him in Christian charity. 

Herbert. All praise to Heaven, and 
sweet St. ^lagdalen I 



Henry. And so farewell until we 

meet in England. 
Becket. I fear, my liege, we may not 

meet in England. 
Hemy. How, do you make me a 

traitor ? 
Becket. No, indeed ! 

That be far from thee. 

Henry. Come, stay with us, then, 

Before you part for England. 

Becket. I am bound 

For that one hour to stay with good 

King Louis, 
Who helpt me when none else. 

Herbert. He said thy life 

Was not one hour's worth in England 

save 
King Henry gave thee first the kiss of 
peace. 
Henry. He said so ? Louis, did he ? 
look you, Herbert, 
When I was in mine anger with King 

Louis, 
I sware I would not give the kiss of peace. 
Not on French ground, nor any ground 

but English, 
Where his cathedral stands. Mine old 

friend, Thomas, 
I would there were that perfect trust 

between us. 
That health of heart, once ours, ere 

Pope or King 
Had come between us ! Even now — 

who knows ? — 
I might deliver all things to thy hand — 
If . . . but I say no more . . . fare- 
well, my lord. 
Becket. Farewell, my liege ! 

\Exit Henry, then the Barons and 

Bishops. 

Walter Map. There again ! when the 

full fruit of the royal promise might 

have dropt into thy mouth hadst thou but 

opened it to thank him. 

Becket. He fenced his royal promise 

with an if. 
Walter Map. And is the King's ij 
too high a stile for your lordship to over- 
step and come at all things in the next 
field? 



ACT IV 



BECKET 



731 



Becket. ky, if this if be like the 
Devil's * if 
Thou wilt fall down and worship me.' 

Herbert. Oh, Thotnas, 

I could fall down and worship thee, my 

Thomas, 
For thou hast trodden this wine-press 
alone. 
Becket. Nay, of the people there are 

many with me. 
Walter Map. I am not altogether 
with you, my lord, tho' I am none of 
those that would raise a storm between 
you, lest ye should draw together like 
two ships in a calm. You wrong the 
King : he meant what he said to-day. 
Who shall vouch for his to-morrows? 
One word further. Doth not the few- 
ness of anything make the fulness of it in 
estimation ? Is not virtue prized mainly 
for its rarity and great baseness loathed 
as an exception : for were all, my lord, 
as noble as yourself, who would look up 
to you ? and were all as base as — who 
shall I say — Fitzurse and his following — 
who would look down upon them? My 
lord, you have put so many of the King's 
household out of communion, that they 
begin to smile at it. 

Becket. At their peril, at their peril 

Walter Map. — For tho' the drop 
may hollow out the dead stone, doth not 
the living skin thicken against perpetual 
whippings ? This is the second grain of 
good counsel I ever proffered thee, and 
so cannot suffer by the rule of frequency. 
Have I sown it in salt ? I trust not, for 
before God I promise you the King hath 
many more wolves than he can tame in 
his woods of England, and if it suit their 
purpose to howl for the King, and you 
still move against him, you may have no 
less than to die for it ; but God and his 
free wind grant your lordship a happy 
home-return and the King's kiss of peace 
in Kent. Farewell ! I must follow the 
King. \^Exit. 

Herbei't. Ay, and I warrant the cus- 
toms. Did the King 
Speak of the customs ? 



Becket. No !— To die for it— 

I live to die for it, I die to live for it. 
The State will die, the Church can never 

die. 
The King's not like to die for that which 

dies ; 
But I must die for that which never dies. 
It will be so — my visions in the Lord : 
It must be so, my friend ! the wolves of 

England 
Must murder her one shepherd, that the 

sheep 
May feed in peace. False figure, Map 

would say. 
Earth's falses are heaven's truths. And 

when my voice 
Is martyr'd mute, and this man disappears, 
That perfect trust may come again between 

us. 
And there, there, there, not here I shall 

rejoice 
To find my stray sheep back within the 

fold. 
The crowd are scattering, let us move 

away ! 
And thence to England. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV 

SCENE I. — The Outskirts of the 
Bower 

Geoffrey {coming out of the wood). 
Light again ! light again ! Margery ? no, 
that's a finer thing there. How it glitters ! 

Eleanor {entering). Come to me, little 
one. How camest thou hither ? 

Geoffrey. On my legs. 

Eleanor. And mighty pretty legs toOr 
Thou art the prettiest child I ever saw. 
Wilt thou love me? 

Geoffrey. No ; I only love mother. 

Eleanor. Ay; and who is thy mother? 

Geoffrey. They call her But she 

lives secret, you see. 

Eleanor. Why ? 

Geoffrey. Don't know why. 

Eleanor. Ay, but some one comes to 
see her now and then. Who is he ? 



732 



BECKET 



ACT IV 



Geoffrey. Can't tell. 

Eleanor. What does she call him ? 

Geoffrey. My liege. 

Eleanor. Prettyone, how earnest thou? 

Geoffrey. There was a bit of yellow 
silk here and there, and it looked pretty 
like a glowworm, and I thought if I 
followed it I should find the fairies. 

Eleanor. I am the fairy, pretty one, 
a good fairy to thy mother. Take me 
to her. 

Geoffrey. There are good fairies and 
bad fairies, and sometimes she cries, and 
can't sleep sound o' nights because of the 
bad fairies. 

Eleanor. She shall cry no more ; she 
shall sleep sound enough if thou wilt take 
me to her. I am her good fairy. 

Geoffrey. But you don't look like a 
good fairy. Mother does. You are not 
pretty, like mother. 

Eleanor. We can't all of us be as 
pretty as thou art — {aside) little bastard. 
Come, here is a golden chain I will give 
thee if thou wilt lead me to thy mother. 

Geoffrey. No— no gold. Mother says 
gold spoils all. Love is the only gold. 

Eleanor. I love thy mother, my 
pretty boy. Show me where thou camest 
out of the wood. 

Geoffrey. By this tree ; but I don't 
know if I can find the way back again. 

Eleajior. Where's the warder ? 

Geoffj-ey. Very bad. Somebody struck 
him. 

Eleanor. Ay ? who was that ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. But I heard say 
he had had a stroke, or you'd have heard 
his horn before now. Come along, then ? 
we shall see the silk here and there, and 
I want my supper. {Exeztnt. 

SCENE II.— Rosamund's Bower 

Rosamund. The boy so late ; pray 

God, he be not lost. 
I sent this Margery, and she comes not 

back ; 
I sent another, and she comes not back. 
I go myself — so many alleys, crossings, 



Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, now 
The folds have fallen from the mystery, 
And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 

Enter Geoffrey and Eleanor 
Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to ! 
^Seeing Eleanor. 
Ha, you ! 
How came you hither ? 

Eleajior. Your own child brought me 

hither ! 
Geoffrey. You said you couldn't trust 
Margery, and I watched her and followed 
her into the woods, and I lost her and 
went on and on till I found the light and 
the lady, and she says she can make you 
sleep o' nights. 

Rosamund. How dared you ? Know 

you not this bower is secret. 
Of and belonging to the King of England, 
More sacred than his forests for the 

chase ? 
Nay, nay. Heaven help you ; get you 

hence in haste 
Lest worse befall you. 

Eleanor. Child, I am mine own self 
Of and belonging to the King. The 

King 
Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belong- 
ings, 
Almost as many as your true Mussulman — 
Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases 

him 
To call his wives ; but so it chances, 

child. 
That I am his main paramour, his sultana. 
But since the fondest pair of doves will 

jar, 
Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of 

late. 
And thereupon he call'd my children 

bastards. 
Do you believe that you are married to 

him ? 
Rosa7nund. I should believe it. 
Eleanor. You must not believe it, 

Because I have a wholesome medicine 

here 
Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, 

beautv ! 



BECKET 



733 



Do you believe that you are married to 

him ? 
Rosannmd. Geoffrey, my boy, I saw 
the ball you lost in the fork of the great 
willow over the brook. Go. See that 
you do not fall in. Go. 

Geoffrey. And leave you alone with 
the good fairy. She calls you beauty, 
but I don't like her looks. Well, you 
bid me go, and I'll have my ball anyhow. 
Shall I find you asleep when I come 
back ? 

Rosamnnd. Go. \Exit Geoffrey. 

' Eleanor. He is easily found again. 

Do you believe it ? 
I pray you then to take my sleeping- 
draught ; 
But if you should not care to take it — 

see ! \^Dra'ws a dagger. 

What ! have I scared the red rose from 

your face 
Into your heart? But this will find it 

there. 
And dig it from the root for ever. 

Rosamund. Help ! help ! 

Elea7ior. They say that walls have 

ears ; but these, it seems. 
Have none ! and I have none — to pity 

thee. 
Rosa?fitmd. I do beseech you — my 

child is so young. 
So backward too ; I cannot leave him 

yet. 
I am not so happy I could not die my- 
self, 
But the child is so young. You have 

children — his ; 
And mine is the King's child ; so, if you 

love him — 
Nay, if you love him, there is great 

wrong done 
Somehow ; but if you do not — there are 

those 
Who say you do not love him — let me go 
With my young boy, and I will hide my 

face. 
Blacken and gipsyfy it ; none shall know 

me ; 
The King shall never hear of me again. 
But I will beg my bread along the world 



With my young boy, and God will be 

our guide. 
I never meant you harm in any way. 
See, I can say no more. 

Eleanor. Will you not say you are 

not married to him ? 
Rosamund. Ay, Madam, I can say 

it, if you will. 
Eleanor. Then is thy pretty boy a 

bastard ? 
Rosamund. No. 

Eleanor. And thou thyself a proven 

wanton ? 
Rosamund. No. 

I am none such. I never loved but one. 
I have heard of such that range from 

love to love. 
Like the wild beast — if you can call it 

love. 
I have heard of such — yea, even among 

those 
Who sit on thrones — I never saw any 

such, 
Never knew any such, and howsoever 
You do misname me, match'd with any 

such, 
I am snow to mud. 

Eleanor. The more the pity then 

That thy true home — the heavens — cry 

out for thee 
Who art too pure for earth. 

Enter FiTZURSE 
Fitzurse. Give her to me. 

Eleanor. The Judas - lover of our 
passion-play 
Hath track'd us hither. 

Fitzurse. Well, why not ? I followed 
You and the child : he babbled all the 

way, 
Give her to me to make my honey- 
moon. 
Eleanor. Ay, as the bears love honey. 
Could you keep her 
Indungeon'd from one whisper of the 

wind, 
Dark even from a side glance of the 

moon. 
And oublietted in the centre — No ! 
I follow out my hate and thy revenge. 



734 



BECKET 



Fitzurse. You bad me take revenge 

another way — 
To bring her to the dust. . . . Come 

with me, love, 
And I will love thee. . . . Madam, let 

her live. 
I have a far-off burrow where the King 
Would miss her and for ever. 

Eleajior. How sayst thou, 

sweetheart ? 
Wilt thou go with him ? he will marry 

thee. 
Rosamund. Give me the poison ; set 

me free of him ! 

[Eleanor offers the vial. 
No, no ! I will not have it. 

Eleanor. Then this other, 

The wiser choice, because my sleeping- 
draught 
May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and 

make 
Thy body loathsome even to thy child ; 
While this but leaves thee with a broken 

heart, 
A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over 

which 
If pretty Geoffrey do not break his own. 
It must be broken for him, 

Rosamund. O I see now 

Your purpose is to fright me — a trouba- 
dour 
You play with words. You had never 

used so many. 
Not if you meant it, I am sure. The 

child . . . 
No . . . mercy ! No ! {Kneels.) 
Eleanor. Play ! . . . that 

bosom never 
Heaved under the King's hand with such 

true passion 
As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, 
Which it will quench in blood ! Slave, 

if he love thee. 
Thy life is worth the wrestle for it : arise, 
And dash thyself against me that I may 

slay thee ! 
The worm ! shall I let her go ? But 

ha ! what's here ? 
By very God, the cross I gave the King ! 
His village darling in some lewd caress 



Has wheedled it off the King's neck to 

her own. 
By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same ! 

I warrant 
Thou hast sworn on this my cross a 1 

hundred times 
Never to leave him — and that merits 

death. 
False oath on holy cross — for thou must 

leave him 
To-day, but not quite yet. My good 

Fitzurse, 
The running down the chase is kindlier 

sport 
Ev'n than the death. Who knows but 

that thy lover 
May plead so pitifully, that I may spare 

thee? 
Come hither, man ; stand there. {To 

Rosamund) Take thy one chance ; 
Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy 

lord Fitzurse ; 
Crouch even because thou hatest him ; 

fawn upon him 
For thy life and thy son's. 

Rosamund {rising). I am a Clifford, 
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
I am to die then, tho' there stand beside 

thee 
One who might grapple with th)' dagger, 

if he 
Had aught of man, or thou of woman ; 

or I 
Would bow to such a baseness as would 

make me 
Most worthy of it ; both of us will die. 
And I will fly with my sweet boy to 

heaven. 
And shriek to all the saints among the 

stars : 
' Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of Eng- 
land ! 
Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, 
Whose doings are a horror to the east, 
A hissing in the west ! ' Have we not 

heard 
Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle — 

nay, 
Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine ownhusband's 

father — 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



735 



Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Salad- 

deen 

Strike ! 

I challenge thee to meet me before God. 

Answer me there. 

Eleanor {i-aising the dagger). This in 

thy bosom, fool. 
And after in thy bastard's ! 

Enter BECKET/rt'w behind. Catches 

hold of her arm. 
Becket. Murderess ! 

[ The dagger falls ; they stare at one 
another. After a pause. 
Eleanor. My lord, we know you 
proud of your fine hand. 
But having now admired it long enough, 
We find that it is mightier than it seems — 
At least mine own is frailer ; you are 
laming it. 
Becket. And lamed and maim'd to 
dislocation, better 
Than raised to take a life which Henry 

bad me 
Guard from the stroke that dooms thee 

after death 
To wail in deathless flame. 

Eleanor. Nor you, nor I 

Have now to learn, my lord, that our 

good Henry 
Says many a thing in sudden heats, 

which he 
Gainsays by next sunrising — often ready 
To tear himself for having said as much. 

My lord, Fitzurse 

Becket. He too ! what dost thou here? 
Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den ? 
One downward plunge of his paw would 

rend away 
Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from 

thee. 
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, 
And make thee a world's horror. 

Fitzurse. My lord, I shall 

Remember this. 

Becket. I do remember thee ; 

Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. 

\Exit Fitzurse. 
Take up your dagger ; put it in the 
sheath. 



Eleanor. Might not your courtesy 

stoop to hand it me ? 
But crowns must bow when mitres sit so 

high. 
Well — well — too costly to be left or lost. 
{^Picks up the dagger. 
I had it from an Arab soldan, who, 
When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd 

at 
Our unfamiliar beauties of the west ; 
But wonder'd more at my much constancy 
To the monk -king, Louis, our former 

burthen. 
From whom, as being too kin, you know, 

my lord, 
God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd 

us. 
I think, time given, I could have talk'd 

him out of 
His ten wives into one. Look at the 

hilt. 
What excellent workmanship. In our 

poor west 
We cannot do it so well. 

Becket. We can do worse. 

Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat ; 
I heard your savage cr}-. 

Eleanor. Well acted, was it ? 

A comedy meant to seem a tragedy — 
A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you 

are known 
Thro' all the courts of Christendom as 

one 
That mars a cause with over-violence. 
You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak not 

of myself. 
We thought to scare this minion of the 

King • 
Back from her churchless commerce with 

the King 
To the fond arms of her first love, 

Fitzurse, 
Who swore to marry her. You have 

spoilt the farce. 
My savage cry ? Why, she — she — when 

I strove 
To work against her license for her 

good, 
Bark'd out at me such monstrous charges, 

that 



736 



BECKET 



The King himself, for love of his own 

sons, 
If hearing, would have spurn'd her ; 

vv'hereupon 
I menaced her with this, as when we 

threaten 
A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not 
That I was somewhat anger'd. Do you 

hear me ? 
Believe or no, I care not. You have 

lost 
The ear of the King. I have it. . . . 

My lord Paramount, 
Our great High -priest, will not your 

Holiness 
Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your 

Queen ? 
Becket. Rosamund hath not answer'd 

you one word ; 
Madam, I will not answer you one word. 
Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. 

Leave it, daughter ; 
Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery, 
And live what may be left thee of a life 
Saved as by miracle alone with Him 
Who gave it. 

Re-enter Geoffrey 

Geoffrey. Mother, you told me a great 

fib : it wasn't in the willow. 
Becket. Follow us, my son, and we 

will find it for thee — 
Or something manlier. 

\_Exeunt Becket, Rosamund, avd 

Geoffrey. 
Eleanor. The world hath trick'd her 

— that's the King ; if so,. 
There was the farce, the feint — not mine. 

And yet 
I am all but sure my dagger was a feint 
Till the worm turn'd — not life shot up in 

blood. 
But death drawn in ; — {looking at the vial) 

this was no feint then ? no. 
But can I swear to that, had she but 

given 
Plain answer to plain query ? nay, me- 

thinks 
Had she but bow'd herself to meet the 

wave 



Of humiliation, worshipt whom she 

loathed, 
I should have let her be, scorn'd her too 

much 
To harm her. Henry — Becket tells him 

this — 
To take my life might lose him Aquitaine. 
Too politic for that. Imprison me ? 
No, for it came to nothing — only a feint. 
Did she not tell me I was playing on 

her? 
I'll swear to mine own self it was a 

feint. 
Why should I swear, Eleanor, who am, 

or was, 
A sovereign power ? The King plucks 

out their eyes 
Who anger him, and shall not I, the 

Queen, 
Tear out her heart — kill, kill with knife 

or venom 
One of his slanderous harlots ? ' None 

of such ? ' 
I love her none the more. Tut, the 

chance gone, 
She lives— but not for him ; one point is 

gain'd. 
O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King 

Louis, 
Scorning his monkery, — I that wedded 

Henry, 
Honouring his manhood — will he not 

mock at me 
The jealous fool balk'd of her will — with 

him ? 
But he and he must never meet again. 
Reginald Fitzurse ! 

Re-enter FiTZURSE 

Fitzurse. Here, Madam, at your 

pleasure. 
Eleanor. My pleasure is to have a 

man about me. 
Why did you slink away so like a cur ? 
Fitzurse. Madam, I am as much man 

as the King. 
Madam, I fear Church -censures like your 

King. 
Eleanor. He grovels to the Church 

when he's black-blooded, 



BECKET 



737 



But kinglike fought the proud archbishop, 

— kinglike 
Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly 

sires, 
The Normans, striving still to break or 

bind 
The spiritual giant with our island laws 
And customs, made me for the moment 

proud 
Ev'n of that stale Church -bond which 

link'd me with him 
To bear him kingly sons. I am not so 

sure 
But that I love him still. Thou as much 

man ! 
No more of that ; we will to France and 

be 
Beforehand with the King, and brew from 

out 
This Godstow-Becket intermeddling such 
A strong hate- philtre as may madden him 

— madden 
Against his priest beyond all hellebore. 



ACT V 

SCENE I. — Castle in Normandy. 
King's Chamber 

Henry, Roger of York, Foliot, 
JocELYN OF Salisbury 

Roger of York. Nay, nay, my liege, 
He rides abroad with armed followers. 
Hath broken all his promises to thyself. 
Cursed and anathematised us right and 

left, 
Stirr'd up a party there against your 
son — 
Henry. Roger of York, you always 
hated him. 
Even when you both were boys at 
Theobald's, 
Roger of York. I always hated bound- 
less arrogance. 
In mine own cause I strove against him 

there. 
And in thy cause I strive against him 
now. 
T 



Hcmy. I cannot think he moves 
against my son, 
Knowing right well with what a tender- 
ness 
He loved my son. 

Roger of York. Before you made him 
king. 
But Becket ever moves against a king. 
The Church is all — the crime to be a 

king. 
We trust your Royal Grace, lord of more 

land 
Than any crown in Europe, will not yield 
To lay your neck beneath your citizen's 
heel. 
Henry. Not to a Gregory of my 

throning ! No. 
Foliot. My royal liege, in aiming at 
your love, 
It may be sometimes I have overshot 
My duties to our Holy Mother Church, 
Tho' all the world allows I fall no inch 
Behind this Becket, rather go beyond 
In scourgings, macerations, mortifyings. 
Fasts, disciplines that clear the spiritual 

eye, 
And break the soul from earth. Let all 

that be. 
I boast not : but you know thro' all this 

quarrel 
I still have cleaved to the crown, in hope 

the crown 
Would cleave to me that but obey'd the 

crown. 
Crowning your son ; for which our lo\al 

service, 
And since we likewise swore to obey the 

customs, 
York and myself, and our good Salisbury 

here. 
Are push'd from out communion of the 
Church. 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Becket hath 
trodden on us like worms, my 
liege ; 
Trodden one half dead ; one half, but 

half-alive. 
Cries to the King. 

Henry {aside). Take care o' thyself, 
O King. 

3 B 



738 



BECKET 



Jocelyn of Salisbury. Being so crush'd 
and so humiliated 
We scarcely dare to bless the food we 

eat 
Because of Becket. 

Henry. What would ye have me do ? 
Eager of York. Summon your barons ; 
take their counsel : yet 
I know — could swear — as long as Becket 

breathes, 
Your Grace will never have one quiet 
hour. 
Henry. What? . . . Ay . . . but 
pray you do not work upon me. 
I see your drift ... it may be so . . . 

and yet 
You know me easily anger'd. Will you 

hence ? 
He shall absolve you . . . you shall 

have redress. 
I have a dizzying headache. Let me 

rest. 
I'll call you by and by. 

{Exeunt Roger of York, Foliot, and 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. 
Would he were dead ! I have lost all 

love for him. 
If God would take him in some sudden 

way — 
Would he were dead. {Lies dow7i. 

Page {entering). My liege, the Queen 

of England. 
Henry. God's eyes ! \Sta7-ting up. 



Enter Eleanor 



Say of 



Eleanor. Of England ? 

Aquitaine. 
I am no Queen of England. I had 

dream'd 
I was the bride of England, and a queen. 
Henry. And, — while you dream'd 
you were the bride of England, — 
Stirring her baby-king against me ? ha ! 
Eleanor. The brideless Becket is thy 
king and mine : 
I will go live and die in Aquitaine. 
Henry. Except I clap thee into 
prison here, 
Lest thou shouldst play the wanton there 
again. 



Ha, you of Aquitaine ! O you of Aqui- 
taine ! 
You were but Aquitaine to Louis — no 

wife ; 
You are only Aquitaine to me — no wife. 
Eleanor. And why, my lord, should 

I be wife to one 
That only wedded me for Aquitaine ? 
Yet this no wife — her six and thirty sail 
Of Provence blew you to your English 

throne ; 
And this no wife has born you four brave 

sons, 

And one of them at least is like to prove 

Bigger in our small world than thou art. 

Henry. Ay — 

Richard, if he be mine — I hope him 

mine. 
But thou art like enough to make him 

thine. 
Eleanor. Becket is like enough to 

make all his. 
Henry. Methought I had recover'd 

of the Becket, 
That all was planed and bevell'd smooth 

again, 
Save from some hateful cantrip of thine 

own. 
Eleanor. I will go live and die in 

Aquitaine. 
I dream'd I was the consort of a king, 
Not one whose back his priest has 

broken. 
Henry. What ! 

Is the end come ? You, will you crown 

my foe 
My victor in mid-battle ? I will be 
Sole master of my house. The end is 

mine. 
What game, what juggle, what devilry 

are you playing? 
Why do you thrust this Becket on me 

again ? 
Eleanor. Why? for I am true wife, 

and have my fears 
Lest Becket thrust you even from your 

throne. 
Do you know this cross, my liege ? 
Henrv {turning his head). Away \ 

Not I. 



BECKET 



739 



Eleanor. Not ev'n the central dia- 
mond, worth, I think. 
Half of the Antioch whence I had it. 
Henry. That ? 

Eleanor. I gave it you, and you your 
paramour ; 
She sends it back, as being dead to 

earth, 
So dead henceforth to you. 

Henry, Dead ! you have murder'd 
her, 
Found out her secret bower and murder'd 
her. 
Eleanor. Your Becket knew the 

secret of your bower. 
Henry {callitig out). Ho there ! thy 

rest of life is hopeless prison. 
Eleanor. And what would my own 
Aquitaine say to that ? 
First, free thy captive from her hopeless 
prison. 
Henry. O devil, can I free her from 

the grave ? 
Eleanor. You are too tragic : both 
of us are players 
In such a comedy as our court of Pro- 
vence 
Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate Latin 

lay 
Of Walter Map : the lady holds the cleric 
Lovelier than any soldier, his poor 

tonsure 
A crown of Empire. Will you have it 

again ? 
( Offering the cross. He dashes it doiun. ) 
St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. 
Then mine once more. {Puts it on.) 

Your cleric hath your lady. 
Nay, what uncomely faces, could he see 

you ! 
Foam at the mouth because King 

Thomas, lord 
Not only of your vassals but amours, 
Thro' chastest honour of the Decalogue 
Hath used the full authority of his Church 
To put her into Godstow nunnery. 

Henry. To put her into Godstow 
nunnery ! 
He dared not — liar ! yet, yet I remem- 
ber — 



I do remember. 

He bad me put her into a nunnery — 
Into Godstow, into Hellstow, Devilstow ! 
The Church ! the Church ! 
God's eyes ! I would the Church were 
down in hell ! \^Exit. 

Eleanor. Aha ! 

Enter the four Knights 

Fitztirse. What made the King cry 

out so furiously ? 
Eleanor. Our Becket, who will not 

absolve the Bishops. 
I think ye four have cause to love this 

Becket. 
Fitziirse. I hate him for his insolence 

to all. 
De Tracy. And I for all his insolence 

to thee. 
De Brito. I hate him for I hate him 

is my reason. 
And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. 
De Morville. I do not love him, for 

he did his best 
To break the barons, and now braves the 

King. 
Eleanor. Strike, then, at once, the 

King would have him — See ! 

Re-enter HENRY 

Henry. No man to love me, honour 

me, obey me ! 
Sluggards and fools ! 
The slave that eat my bread has kick'd 

his King ! 
The dog I cramm'd with dainties worried 

me ! 
The fellow that on a lame jade came to 

court, 
A ragged cloak for saddle — he, he, he. 
To shake my throne, to push into my 

chamber — 
My bed, where ev'n the slave is private 

—he- 
rn have her out again, he shall absolve 
The bishops — they but did my will — not 

you — 
Sluggards and fools, why do you stand 

and stare ? 



740 



BECKET 



ACT V 



You are no King's men — you — you — you 

are Becket's men. 
Down with King Henry ! up with the 

Archbishop ! 

Will no man free me from this pestilent 

priest ? {^Exit. 

[The Knights draw their swords. 

Eleanor. Are ye king's men ? I am 

king's woman, I. 
The Knights. King's men ! King's 
men ! 



SCENE II.— A Room in Canter- 
bury Monastery 

Becket a;/(^ John of Salisbury 

Becket. York said so ? 
John of Salisbury. Yes : a man may 
take good counsel 
Ev'n from his foe. 

Becket. York will say anything. 

What is he saying now? gone to the 

King 
And taken our anathema with him. 

York ! 
Can the King de-anathematise this York ? 
John of Salisbtiry. Thomas, I would 
thou hadst return'd to England, 
Like some wise prince of this world from 

his wars, 
With more of olive-branch and amnesty 
For foes at home — thou hast raised the 
world against thee. 
Becket. Why, John, my kingdom is 

not of this world. 
John of Salisbury . If it were more of 
this world it might be 
More of the next. A policy of wise 

pardon 
Wins here as well as there. To bless 

thine enemies 

Becket. Ay, mine, not Heaven's. 
John of Salisbury. And may there 

not be something 
Of this world's leaven in thee too, when 

crying 
On Holy Church to thunder out her 
rights 



And thine own wrong so pitilessly ? Ah, 

Thomas, 
The lightnings that we think are only 

Heaven's 
Flash sometimes out of earth against the 

heavens. 
The soldier, when he lets his whole self go 
Lost in the common good, the common 

wrong, 
Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. I 

crave 
Thy pardon — I have still thy leave to 

speak. 
Thou hast waged God's war against the 

King ; and yet 
We are self-uncertain creatures, and we 

may. 
Yea, even when we know not, mix our 

spites 
And private hates with our defence of 

Heaven. 

Enter Edward Grim 
Becket. Thou art but yesterday from 
Cambridge, Grim ; 
What say ye there of Becket ? 

Gi'im. I believe him 

The bravest in our roll of Primates down 
From Austin — there are some — for there 
are men 

Of canker'd judgment everywhere 

Becket. ' Who hold 

With York, with York against me. 

Grim. Well, my lord, 

A stranger monk desires access to you. 
Becket. York against Canterbury, 
York against God ! 
I am open to him. [Exit Grim. 

Enter ROSAMUND as a Monk 
Rosarmind. Can I speak with you 

Alone, my father ? 

Becket. Come you to confess ? 

Rosanmnd. Not now. 
Becket. Then speak ; this 

is my other self. 
Who like my conscience never lets me be. 
Rosanmnd [throzmng back the conul). I 
know him ; our good John of 
Salisbury. 



BECKET 



741 



Becket. Breaking already from thy 

noviciate 
To plunge into this bitter world again — 
These wells of Marah. I am grieved, 

my daughter. 
I thought that I had made a peace for 

thee. 
Rosamund. Small peace was mine in 

my noviciate, father. 
Thro' all closed doors a dreadful whisper 

crept 
That thou wouldst excommunicate the 

King. 
I could not eat, sleep, pray : I had with me 
The monk's disguise thou gavest me for 

my bower : 
I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd it. 
I fled, and found thy name a charm to 

get me 
Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber 

once, 
I told him I was bound to see the Arch- 
bishop ; 
* Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I 

pass'd 
From house to house. In one a son 

stone-blind 
Sat by his mother's hearth : he had 

gone too far 
Into the King's own woods ; and the 

poor mother, 
Soon as she learnt I was a friend of 

thine. 
Cried out against the cruelty of the 

King. 
I said it was the King's courts, not the 

King ; 
But she would not believe me, and she 

wish'd 
The Church were king : she had seen 

the Archbishop once. 
So mild, so kind. The people love thee, 

father. 
Becket. Alas ! when I was Chan- 
cellor to the King, 
I fear I was as cruel as the King. 

Rosamund, Cruel ? Oh, no — it is 

the law, not he ; 
The customs of the realm. 

Becket. The customs ! customs ! 



Rosamund. My lord, you have not 
excommunicated him ? 
Oh, if you have, absolve him ! 

Becket. Daughter, daughter, 

Deal not with things you know not. 

Rosamund. I know him. 

Then you have done it, and I call you 

cruel. 

John of Salisbury. No, daughter, you 

mistake our good Archbishop ; 

For once in France the King had been 

so harsh. 
He thought to excommunicate him — 

Thomas, 
You could not — old affection master'd 

you, ^ 
You falter'd into tears. 

Rosamund. God bless him for it. 

Becket. Nay, make me not a woman, 
John of Salisbury, 
Nor make me traitor to my holy office. 
Did not a man's voice ring along the 

aisle, 
' The King is sick and almost unto 

death.' 
How could I excommunicate him then ? 
Rosamund. And wilt thou excom- 
municate him now ? 
Becket. Daughter, my time is short, 
I shall not do it. 
And were it longer — well — I should not 
do it. 
Rosamund. Thanks in this life, and 

in the life to come. 
Becket. Get thee back to thy nunnery 
with all haste ; 
Let this be thy last trespass. But one 

question — 
How fares thy pretty boy, the little 

Geoffrey ? 
No fever, cough, croup, sickness ? 

Rosamund. No, but saved 

From all that by our solitude. The 

plagues 
That smite the city spare the solitudes. 
Becket. God save him from all sick- 
ness of the soul ! 
Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns, 
May that save thee ! Doth he remember 
me? 



742 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Rosamttnd. I warrant Jiim. 
Becket. He is marvellously like thee. 
Rosamund. Liker the King, 
Becket. No, daughter. 

Rosamund. Ay, but wait 

Till his nose rises ; he will be very king. 
Becket. Ev'n so : but think not of 

the King : farewell ! 
Rosamund. My lord, the city is full 

of armed men. 
Becket. Ev'n so : farewell ! 
Rosamund. I will but pass to vespers, 
And breathe one prayer for my liege-lord 

the King, 
His child and mine own soul, and so 
return. 
Becket. Pray for me too : much need 
of prayer have I. 

[Rosamund kneels and goes. 
Dan John, how much we lose, we celi- 
bates, 
Lacking the love of woman and of child. 
Johji of Salisbury. More gain than 
loss ; for of your wives you shall 
Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems 
Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it — 

one 
So charged with tongue, that every thread 

of thought 
Is broken ere it joins — a shrew to boot. 
Whose evil song far on into the night 
Thrills to the topmost tile — no hope but 

death ; 
One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the 

hearth ; 
And one that being thwarted ever swoons 
And weeps herself into the place of 

power ; 
And one an uxor pauperis Ibyci. 
So rare the household honeymaking 

bee, 
Man's help ! but we, we have the Blessed 

Virgin 
For worship, and our Mother Church 

for bride ; 
And all the souls we saved and father'd 

here 
Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. 
What noise was that? she told us of 
arm'd men 



Here in the city. Will you not with- 
draw ? 
Becket. I once was out with Henry 

in the days 
When Henry loved me, and we came 

upon 
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still 
I reach'd my hand and touched ; she did 

not stir ; 
The snow had frozen round her, and she 

sat 
Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold 

eggs. 
Look ! how this love, this mother, runs 

thro' all 
The world God made — even the beast — 

the bird ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, still a lover 

of the beast and bird ? 
But these arm'd men — will you not hide 

yourself? 
Perchance the fierce De Brocs from Salt- 
wood Castle, 
To assail our Holy Mother lest she 

brood 
Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, 

and send 
Her whole heart's heat into it, till it 

break 
Into young angels. Pray you, hide 

yourself. 
Becket. There was a little fair-hair'd 

Norman maid 
Lived in my mother's house : if Rosa- 
mund is 
The Avorld's rose, as her name imports 

her — she 
Was the world's lily. 
John of Salisbury. Ay, and what of 

her? 
Becket. She died of leprosy. 
John of Salisbury. I know not why 
You call these old things back again, my 

lord. 
Becket. The drowning man, they say, 

remembers all 
The chances of his Hfe, just ere he dies. 
John of Salisbury. Ay — but these 

arm'd men — -v^WXyou Axowxv yotcr- 

self} 



BECKET 



743 



He loses half the meed of martyrdom 
Who will be martyr when he might 
escape. 
Becket. What day of the week ? 

Tuesday ? 
Joint of Salishnry. Tuesday, my lord. 
Becket. On a Tuesday was I born, 
and on a Tuesday 
Baptized ; and on a Tuesday did I fly 
Forth from Northampton ; on a Tuesday 

pass'd 
From England into bitter banishment ; 
On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to 

me 
The ghostly warning of my martyrdom ; 
On a Tuesday from mine exile I return'd, 

And on a Tuesday 

[Tracy enters, then Fitzurse, De Brito, 
and De Morville. Monks follow- 
ing. 

— on a Tuesday Tracy ! 

{A long silence broken by Fitzurse saying, 

conieinpitwusly), 
God help thee ! 
John of Salisbury (aside). How the 
good Archbishop reddens ! 
He never yet could brook the note of 
scorn. 
Fitzurse. M}' lord, we bring a message 
from the King 
Beyond the water ; will you have it 

alone, 
Or with these listeners near you ? 

Becket. As you will. 

Fitzurse. Nay, 2i% you will. 
Becket. Nay, 2,% you will. 

John of Salisbury. Why then 

Better perhaps to speak with them apart. 
Let us withdraw. 

{All go out except the four Knights 
and Becket. 
Fitzurse. We are all alone with him. 
Shall I not smite him with his own cross- 
staff? 
De Moi-ville. No, look ! the door is 

open : let him be, 
Fitzurse. The King condemns your 

excommunicating 

Becket. This is no secret, but a public 
matter. 



In here again ! 

[John of Salisbury and Monks return. 

Now, sirs, the King's commands ! 
Fitzurse. The King beyond the water, 

thro' our voices. 
Commands you to be dutiful and leal 
To your young King on this side of the 

water, 
Not scorn him for the foibles of his youth. 
What ! you would make his coronation 

void 
By cursing those who crt)wn'd him. Out 

upon you ! 
Becket. Reginald, all men know I 

loved the Prince. 
His father gave him to my care, and I 
Became his second father : he had his 

faults. 
For which I would have laid mine own 

life down 
To help him from them, since indeed I 

loved him. 
And love him next after my lord his father. 
Rather than dim the splendour of his 

crown 
I fain would treble and quadruple it 
With revenues, realms, and golden pro- 
vinces 
So that were done in equity. 

Fitzurse. You have broken 

Your bond of peace, your treaty with the 

King- 
Wakening such brawls and loud disturb- 
ances 
In England, that he calls you oversea 
To answer for it in his Norman courts. 
Becket. Prate not of bonds, for never, 

oh, never again 
Shall the waste voice of the bond-break- 
ing sea 
Divide me from the mother church of 

England, 
My Canterbury. Loud disturbances ! 
Oh, ay — the bells rang out even to 

deafening. 
Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants 

and hymns 
In all the churches, trumpets in the halls. 
Sobs, laughter, cries : they spread their 

raiment down 



744 



BECKET 



Before me — would have made my path- 
way flowers 
Save that it was mid-winter in the street, 
But full mid-summer in those honest 
hearts. 
Fitzurse. The King commands you 
to absolve the bishops 
Whom you have excommunicated. 

Becket. I ? 

Not I, the Pope. Ask him for absolution. 

Fitzzirse. But you advised the Pope. 

Becket. And so I did. 

They have but to submit. 

The fouj' Knights. The King com- 
mands you. 
We are all King's men. 

Becket. King's men at least 

should know 
That their own King closed with me last 

July 
That I should pass the censures of the 

Church 
On those that crown'd young Henry in 

this realm, 
And trampled on the rights of Canter- 
bury. 
Fitzurse. What ! dare you charge 
the King with treachery ? 
He sanction thee to excommunicate 
The prelates whom he chose to crown 
his son ! 
Becket. I spake no word of treachery, 
Reginald. 
But for the truth of this I make appeal 
To all the archbishops, bishops, prelates, 

barons, 
Monks, knights, five hundred, that were 

there and heard. 
Nay, you yourself were there : you heard 
yourself. 
Fitzurse. I was not there. 
Becket. I saw you there. 

Fitzurse. I was not. 

Becket. You were. I never forget 

anything. 
Fitzu7'se. He makes the King a 
traitor, me a liar. 
How long shall we forbear him ? 

John of Salisbtiry {drawing Becket 
aside). O my good lord, 



Speak with them privately on this here- 
after. 
You see they have been revelling, and 1 

fear 
Are braced and brazen'd up with 

Christmas wines 
For any murderous brawl. 

Becket. And yet they prate 

Of mine, my brawls, when those, that 

name themselves 
Of the King's part, have broken down 

our barns, 
V/asted our diocese, outraged our tenants. 
Lifted our produce, driven our clerics 

out — 
Why they, your friends, those ruffians, 

the De Brocs, 
They stood on Dover beach to murder 

me, 
They slew my stags in mine own manor 

here. 
Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter-mule, 
Plunder'd the vessel full of Gascon wine, 
The old King's present, carried off the 

casks, 
Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the other 

half 

In Pevensey Castle 

De Morville. Why not rather then. 
If this be so, complain to your young 

King, 
Not punish of your own authority ? 
Becket. Mine enemies barr'd all access 

to the boy. 
They knew he loved me. 
Hugh, Hugh, how proudly you exalt 

your head ! 
Nay, when they seek to overturn our 

rights, 
I ask no leave of king, or mortal man. 
To set them straight again. Alone I do 

it. 
Give to the King the things that are the 

King's, 
And those of God to God. 

Fitzurse. Threats ! threats ! 

ye hear him. 
What ! will he excommunicate all the 

world ? 

{The Knights co77ie rotind Becket. 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



745 



De Tracy. He shall not. 
De Brito. Well, as yet— 

I should be grateful — 
He hath not excommunicated me. 

Becket. Because thou wast born ex- 
communicate. 
I never spied in thee one gleam of grace. 
De Brito. Your Christian's Christian 
charity ! 

Becket. By St. Denis 

De Brito. Ay, by St. Denis, now will 
he flame out, 
And lose his head as old St. Denis did, 
Becket. Ye think to scare me from 
my loyalty 
To God and to the Holy Father. No ! 
Tho' all the swords in England flash'd 

above me 
Ready to fall at Henry's word or yours — 
Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets upon 

earth 
Blared from the heights of all the thrones 

of her kings. 
Blowing the world against me, I would 

stand 
Clothed with the full authority of Rome, 
Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith. 
First of the foremost of their files, who die 
For God, to people heaven in the great day 
When God makes up his jewels. Once 

I fled— 
Never again, and you — I marvel at you — 
Ye know what is between us. Ye have 

sworn 
Yourselves my men when I was Chan- 
cellor — 
My vassals — and yet threaten your 

Archbishop 
In his own house. 

Knights. Nothing can be between us 
That goes against our fealty to the King. 
Fitzurse. And in his name we charge 
you that ye keep 
This traitor from escaping. 

Becket. Rest you easy, 

For I am easy to keep. I shall not fly. 
Here, here, here will you find me. 

De JMorville. Know you not 

You have spoken to the peril of your life ? 
Becket. As I shall speak again. 



Fitzurse, De Tracy, and De Brito. 

To arms ! 

\They rush out, De Morville lingers. 

Becket. De Morville, 

I had thought so well of you ; and even 

now 
You seem the least assassin of the four. 
Oh, do not damn yourself for company ! 
Is it too late for me to save your soul ? 
I pray you for one moment stay and speak. 
De Moj-ville. Becket, it is too late ! 

[Exit. 
Becket. Is it too late ? 

Too late on earth may be too soon in hell. 
Knights {in the distance). Close the 
great gate — ho, there — upon the 
town. 
Beckett's Retainers. Shut the hall- 
doors. {A paiise. 
Becket. You hear them, brother John ; 
Why do you stand so silent, brother 
John? 
John of Salisbury. For I was musing 
on an ancient saw, 
Suaviter in viodo, fortiter in re. 
Is strength less strong when hand-in-hand 

with grace ? 
Gratior in ptilchro corpore virtus. 

Thomas, 
Why should you heat yourself for such as 
these ? 
Becket. Methought I answer'd mod- 
erately enough. 
John of Salisbury. As one that blows 
the coal to cool the fire. 
My lord, I marvel why you never lean 
On any man's advising but your own. 
Becket. Is it so, Dan John ? well, 

what should I have done ? 
Jolui of Salishiuy. You should have 
taken counsel with your friends 
Before these bandits brake into your 

presence. 
They seek — you make — occasion for 
your death. 
Becket. My counsel is already taken, 
John. 
I am prepared to die. 

John of Salisbuiy. We are sinners all, 
The best of all not all-prepared to die. 



746 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Becket. God's will be done ! 

John of Salisbwy. Ay, well. 

God's will be done ! 
Grivi {re-entering). My lord, the 
knights are arming in the garden 
Beneath the sycamore. 

Becket. Good ! let them arm. 

Grim. And one of the De Brocs is 
with them, Robert, 
The apostate monk that was with Ran- 

dulf here. 
He knows the twists and turnings of the 
place. 
Becket. No fear ! 

Grim. No fear, my lord. 

\Crashes on the hall-doois. The 

Monks y?^^. 

Becket [risiftg). Our dovecote flown ! 

1 cannot tell why monks should all be 

cowards. 

John of Salisbury. Take refuge in 

your own cathedral, Thomas. 
Becket. Do they not fight the Great 
Fiend day by day ? 
Valour and holy life should go together. 
Why should all monks be cowards? 

John of Salisbury. Are they so ? 

I say, take refuge in your own cathe- 
dral. 
Becket. Ay, but I told them I would 

wait them here. 
Grim. May they not say you dared 
not show yourself 
\\\ your old place ? and vespers are 
beginning. 
\^Bell rings for vespers till end of scene. 
You should attend the office, give them 

heart. 
They fear you slain : they dread they 
know not what. 
Becket. Ay, monks, not men. 
Grim. I am a monk, my lord. 

Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. 
Some would stand by you to the death. 
Becket. Your pardon. 

John of Salisbury. He said, 'Attend 

the office.' 
Becket. Attend the office ? 

Why then — The Cross ! — who bears my 
Cross before me ? 



Methought they would have brain'd me 

with it, John. [Grim takes it, 

Gritn. I ! Would that I could bear 

thy cross indeed ! 
Becket. The Mitre ! 
John of Salisbury. Will you wear 
it ? — there ! 

[Becket puts on the mitre. 
Becket. The Pall ! 

I go to meet my King ! 

[Puts on the pall 

Grim. To meet the King? 

{Crashes on the door as they go out. 

John of Salisbury. Why do you move 

with such a stateliness ? 

Can you not hear them yonder like a 

storm. 
Battering the doors, and breaking thro' 
the walls ? 
Becket. Why do the heathen rage ? 
My two good friends, 
What matters murder'd here, or murder'd 

there ? 
And yet my dream foretold my martyr- 
dom 
In mine own church. It is God's will. 

Go on. 
Nay, drag me not. We must not seem 
to fly. 

SCENE III.— North Transept of 
Canterbury Cathedral 

On the right hand a flight of steps leading 
to the Choir, another flight on the left, 
leading to the North Aisle. Winter 
afternoon slowly darkening. Low 
thunder nozv and then of an approach- 
ing storm. Monks heard chanting the 
service. ROSAMUND kneeling. 

Rosamund. O blessed saint, O glori- 
ous Benedict, — 

These arm'd men in the city, these fierce 
faces — 

Thy holy follower founded Canterbury — ■ 

Save that dear head which now is Can- 
terbury, 

Save him, he saved my life, he saved my 
child. 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



747 



Save him, his blood would darken 

Henry's name ; 
Save him till all as saintly as thyself 
He miss the searching flame of purgatory, 
And pass at once perfect to Paradise. 

{Noise of steps and voices in the cloisters. 
Hark ! Is it they ? Coming ! He is 

not here — 
Not yet, thank heaven. O save him ! 

{Goes tip steps leading to choir. 
Becket {entering., forced along by John 
of Salisbury and Grim). No, 
I tell you ! 
I cannot bear a hand upon my person, 
Why do you force me thus against my 
will ? 
Grim. My lord, we force you from 

your enemies. 
Becket. As you would force a king 

from being crown'd. 
John of Salisbury. We must not force 

the crown of martyrdom. 
{Se)'vice stops. Monks come down from 

the stairs that lead to the choir. 
Monks. Here is the great Arch- 
bishop ! He lives ! he lives ! 
Die with him, and be glorified together. 
Becket. Together ? . . . get you 

back ! go on with the office. 
Monks. Come, then, with us to 

vespers. 
Becket. How can I come 

When you so block the entry ? Back, I 

say ! 
Go on with the office. Shall not Heaven 

be served 
Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd the 

minster-bells, 
And the great deeps were broken up 

again. 
And hiss'd against the sun ? 

[Noise in the cloisters. 
Monks. The murderers, hark ! 

Let us hide ! let us hide ! 

Becket. What do these people fear ? 
Monks. Those arm'd men in the 

cloister. 
Becket. Be not such cravens ! 

I will go out and meet them. 

Grim and others. Shut the doors ! 



We will not have him slain before our 
face. 
{They close the doors of the transept. 
Ktiocking, 
Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the 
doors ! {Knocking. 

Becket. Why, these are our own 
monks who foUow'd us ! 
And will you bolt them out, and have 

them slain ? 
Undo the doors : the church is not a 

castle : 
Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you 

deaf? 
What, have I lost authority among you ? 
Stand by, make way ! 

{Opens the doors. Enter Monks 
from cloister. 

Come in, my friends, come in ! 
Nay, faster, faster ! 

Monks. Oh, my lord Archbishop, 

A score of knights all arm'd with swords 

and axes — 
To the choir, to the choir ! 

[Monks divide, part flying by the 
stairs on the right, part by those on 
the left. The rnsh of these last 
bears Becket alongwith them some 
way lip the steps, where he is left 
standing alone. 
Becket. Shall I too pass to the choir, 
And die upon the Patriarchal throne 
Of all my predecessors ? 

Joh7i of Salisbury. No, to the crypt ! 
Twenty steps down. Stumble not in the 

darkness. 
Lest they should seize thee. 

Grim. To the crypt ? no — no, 

To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath the 
roof ! 
John of Salisbury {pointing upward 
and downwaj'd). That way, or 
this ! Save thyself either way. 
Becket. Oh, no, not either way, nor 
any way 
Save by that way which leads thro' night 

to light. 
Not twenty steps, but one. 
And fear not I should stumble in the 
darkness, 



748 



BECKET 



Not tho' it be their hour, the power of 

darkness, 
But my hour too, the power of light in 

darkness ! 
I am not in the darkness but the light, 
Seen by the Church in Heaven, the 

Church on earth — 
The power of life in death to make her 
free ! 
\Enter the foiw Knights. John of 
Salisbury flies to the altar of St. 
Benedict. 
Fitzwse. Here, here, King's men ! 
\Catches hold of the last flying Monk. 
Where is the traitor Becket ? 
Monk. I am not he ! I am not he, 
my lord. 
I am not he indeed ! 

Fitzitrse. Hence to the fiend ! 

[Pushes him away. 

Where is this treble traitor to the King ? 

De Tracy. Where is the Archbishop, 

Thomas Becket? 
Becket. Here. 

No traitor to the King, but Priest of 

God, 
Primate of England. 

\_Descending into the transept. 
I am he ye seek. 
What would ye have of me ? 

Fitzurse. Your life. 

De Tracy. Your life. 

De Morville. Save that you will 

absolve the bishops. 
Becket. Never, — 

Except they make submission to the 

Church. 
You had my answer to that cry before. 
De Moi"ville. Why, then you are a 

dead man ; flee ! 
Becket. I will not. 

I am readier to be slain, than thou to slay. 
Hugh, I know well thou hast but half a 

heart 
To bathe this sacred pavement with my 

blood. 
God pardon thee and these, but God's 

full curse 
Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm 
One of my flock ! 



Fitzurse. Was not the great gate 

shut ? 
They are thronging in to vespers — half 

the town. 
We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him 

and carry him ! 
Come with us — nay — thou art our pri- 
soner — come ! 
De Moj-ville. Ay, make him prisoner, 
do not harm the man. 
[Fitzurse lays hold of the Arch- 
bishop's pall. 
Becket. Touch me not ! 
De Brito. How the good 

priest gods himself ! 
He is not yet ascended to the Father. 
Fitzurse. I will not only touch, but 

drag thee hence. 
Becket. Thou art my man, thou art 
my vassal. Away ! 
{Fli7tgs him off till he reels., almost 
to falling. 
De Tracy {lays hold of the pall). 
Come ; as he said, thou art our 
prisoner. 
Becket. Down ! 

\Throws him headlong. 
Fitzurse {advances with drawn sword). 
I told thee that I should re- 
member thee ! 
Becket. Profligate pander ! 
Fitzurse. Do you hear that ? 

strike, strike. 
{Strikes off the Archbishop's mitre., 
and wounds him in the forehead. 
Becket {covers his eyes with his hand). 
I do commend my cause to God, the 

Virgin, 
St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of 

England, 
And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. 
[Grim wraps his arms about the 
Archbishop. 
Spare this defence, dear brother. 

[Tracy has arisen, and approaches, 

hesitatingly, with his sword 

raised. 

Fitzurse. Strike him, Tracy ! 

Rosamund {rushing down steps from 

the choir). No, No, No, No ! 



J 



BECKET 



749 



Fitzurse. This wanton here. De 

Morville, 
Hold her away. 
De Morville, I hold her. 
Rosamund {held back by De Morville, 
and stretching out her arms). 

Mercy, mercy, 
(\.s you would hope for mercy. 
Fitzuj-se. Strike, I say. 

Grim. O God, O noble knights, O 
sacrilege ! 
strike our Archbishop in his own cathe- 
dral ! 
rhe Pope, the King, will curse you — the 

whole world 

\bhor you ; ye will die the death of dogs ! 

Sfay, nay, good Tracy. \_Lifts his arm. 

Fitzurse. Answer not, but strike. 

De Tracy. There is my answer then. 

^Sw or d falls on Grim's arjji, and 

glances from it, wounding 

Becket. 

Grim. Mine arm is sever'd. 

'. can no more — fight out the good fight 

— die 
]!onqueror. 
Staggers into the chapel of St. Benedict. 



Becket {falling on his knees). At the 
right hand of Power — 
Power and great glory — for thy Church, 

O Lord— 
Into Thy hands, O Lord — into Thy 

hands ! {Sinks prone. 

De Brito. This last to rid thee of a 

world of brawls ! {Kills him.) 

The traitor's dead, and will arise no more. 

Fitzurse. Nay, have we still'd him ? 

What ! the great Archbishop ! 

Does he breathe ? No ? 

De Tracy. No, Reginald, he is dead. 

\Storm bursts.^ 

De Morville. Will the earth gape and 

swallow us ? 
De Brito. The deed's done — 

Away ! 

[De Brito, De Tracy, Fitzurse, rush 
out, crying ' King''s rnen ! ' De 
Moxw'iWe follo-cus slowly. Flashes 
of lightning thro' the Cathedral. 
Rosamund seen kneeling by the 
body of Becket. 

1 A tremendous thunderstortn actually broke 
over the Cathedral as the murderers were leav- 
ing it. 



THE CUP 

A TRAGEDY 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



GALATIANS 



Synorix, an ex-Tetrarch. 
SiNNATUS, a Tetrarch. 
Attendant. 
Boy. 



Antonius, a Roman General. 

PaBLIUS. 



ROMANS 



ACT I 

SCENE I. — Distant View of a City 
OF Galatia 

As the curtain rises. Priestesses are heard 
singing ifz the Temple. Boy discovered 
on a pathway among Rocks, picking 
grapes. A paj-ty of Roman Soldiers, 
gtiarding a prisojier in chains, come 
doivn the pathway and exeunt. 

Enter S YNORIX {looking rojmd). Singing 
ceases. 

Synorix. Pine, beech and plane, oak, 

walnut, apricot. 
Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bowering-in 
The city where she dwells. She past me 

here 
Three years ago when I was flying from 
My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost touch'd 

her— 
A maiden slowly moving on to music 
Ainong her maidens to this Temple — 

O Gods ! 
She is my fate — else wherefore has my 

fate 
Brought me again to her own city ? — 

married 
Since — married Sinnatus, the Tetrarch 

here — 
But if he be conspirator, Rome will chain. 
Or slay him. I may trust to gain her then 
When I shall have my tetrarchy restored 
By Rome, our mistress, grateful that I 

show'd her 



Maid. 
Phckbe. 

Camma, wife of Sinnatus^ afterwards 
Priestess in the Temple of Artemis. 



Nobleman. 
Messenger. 



The weakness and the dissonance of out 

clans. 
And how to crush them easily. Wretched 

race ! 
And once I wish'd to scourge them to the 

bones. 
But in this narrow breathing-time of life 
Is vengeance for its own sake worth the 

while, 
If once our ends are gain'd ? and now 

this cup — 
I never felt such passion for a woman. 

{Brings out a cup and scroll from 
under his cloak. 
Wliat have I written to her ? 

\Reading the sci'oll. 
' To the admired Camma, wife of 
Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who years 
ago, himself an adorer of our great god- 
dess, Artemis, beheld you afar off worship- 
ping in her Temple, and loved you for it, 
sendsyou this cup rescued fromtheburning 
of one of her shrines in a city thro' which 
he past with the Roman army : it is the 
cup we use in our marriages. Receive 
it from one who cannot at present write 
himself other than 

' A Galatian serving by force in 
THE Roman Legion.' 

[ Turns and looks up to Boy. 
Boy, dost thou know the house of 

Sinnatus ? 
Boy. These grapes are for the house 

of Sinnatus — 
Close to the Temple. 



750 



ACT I 



THE CUP 



751 



Syno7-ix. Yonder ? 

Boy. Yes. 

Syiiorix [aside). That I 

With all my range of women should yet 

shun 
To meet her face to face at once ! My 
boy, 

[Boy covies down rocks to him. 
Take thou this letter and this cup to 

Cam ma, 
The wife of Sinnatus. 

Boy. Going or gone to-day 

To hunt with Sinnatus. 

Synorix. That matters not. 

Take thou this cup and leave it at her 
doors. 
\_Gives the cup and scroll to the Boy. 
Boy. I will, my lord. 

{Takes his basket of grapes and exit. 

Enter Antonius 

Antonius [meeting the Boy as he goes 

out). Why, whither runs the boy ? 

Is that the cup you rescued from the lire ? 

Synorix. I send it to the wife of 

Sinnatus, 
One half besotted in religious rites. 
You come here with your soldiers to 

enforce 
The long-withholden tribute : you suspect 
This Sinnatus of playing patriotism. 
Which in your sense is treason. You 

have yet 
No proof against him : now this pious 

cup 
Is passport to their house, and open 

arms 
To him who gave it ; and once there I 

warrant 
I worm thro' all their windings. 

Antonius. If you prosper. 

Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies, 
Their quarrels with themselves, their 

spites at Rome, 
Is like enough to cancel them, and throne 
One king above them all, who shall be 

true 
To the Roman : and from what I heard 

in Rome, 
This tributary crown may fall to you. 



Synorix. The king, the crown ! their 
talk in Rome ? is it so ? 

[Antonius nods. 
Well — I shall serve Galatia taking it. 
And save her from herself, and be to 

Rome 
More faithful than a Roman. 

[ Turns and sees Camma coming. 
Stand aside, 
Stand aside ; here she comes ! 

[ Watching Camma as she enters 

with her Maid. 

Camma (to Maid). Where is he, girl? 

Maid. You know the waterfall 

That in the summer keeps the mountain 

side. 
But after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock 
And shoots three hundred feet. 

Cajnma. The stag is there ? 

Maid. Seen in the thicket at the 
bottom there 
But yester-even. 

Camma. Good then, we will climb 
The mountain opposite and watch the 
chase. 
{They descend the rocks and exeunt. 
Synorix [watching her). [Aside) The 
bust of Juno and the brovi^s and 
eyes 
Of Venus ; face and form unmatchable ! 
Antonius. Why do you look at her 

so lingeringly ? 
Synorix. To see if years have changed 

her. 
Antonius [sarcastically). Love her, do 

you ? 
Synorix. I envied Sinnatus when he 

married her. 
Antonius. She knows it ? Ha ! 
Synorix. She — no, nor ev'n my face. 
Antonius. Nor Sinnatus either ? 
Synorix. No, nor Sinnatus. 

Ajitonius. Hot-blooded ! I have 
heard them say in Rome, 
That your own people cast you from their 

bounds. 
For some unprincely violence to a woman, 
As Rome did Tarquin, 

Synorix. Well, if this were so 

I here return like Tarquin — for a crown. 



752 



THE CUP 



ACT I 



Antonms. And may be foil'd like 

Tarquin, if you follow 
Not the dry light of Rome's straight-going 

policy, 
But the fool-fire of love or lust, which 

well 
May make you lose yourself, may even 

drown you 
In the good regard of Rome. 

Synorix. Tut — fear me not ; 

I ever had my victories among women. 
I am most true to Rome. 

Antonitcs [aside). I hate the man ! 

What filthy tools our Senate works with ! 

Still 
I must obey them. {Aloud) Fare you 

well. [Going. 

Synorix. Farewell I 

Antonius {stopping). A moment ! If 

you track this Sinnatus 
In any treason, I give you here an 

order [^Produces a paper. 

To seize upon him. Let me sign it. 

{Signs it.) There 

' Antonius leader of the Roman Legion. ' 

{^Hands the paper to Synorix. Goes 

tip pathway and exit. 

Synorix. Woman again ! — but I am 

wiser now. 
No rushing on the game — the net, — the 

net. 

\Shouts of ' Sinnatus ! Sinnatus ! ' 

Then horn. 

Looking off stage. \ He comes, a rough, 

bluff, simple-looking fellow. 
If we may judge the kernel by the 

husk, 
Not one to keep a woman's fealty when 
Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join 

with him : 
I may reap something from him — come 

upon her 
Again, perhaps, to-day — her. Who are 

with him ? 
I see no face that knows me. Shall I 

risk it ? 
I am a Roman now, they dare not touch 

me. 
I will. 
[Enter Sinnatus, Huntsmen and hounds. 



Fair Sir, a happy day to you ! 
You reck but little of the Roman here, 
While you can take your pastime in the 
woods. 
Sinnatus. Ay, ay, why not? What 

would you with me, man ? 
Synorix. I am a life -long lover of the 
chase, 
And tho' a stranger fain would be allow'd 
To join the hunt. 

Sinnatus. Your name ? 

Synorix. Strato, my name. 

SinnatJts. No Roman name ? 
Syjiorix. A Greek, my lord ; you 
know 
That we Galatians are both Greek and 
Gaul. 

\Shonts and horns in the distance. 
Sinnatus. Hillo, the stag I {To 
Synorix.) What, you are all un- 
furnish'd ? 
Give him a bow and arrows — follow — 
follow. 

[Exit, followed by Huntsmen. 
Synorix. Slowly but surely — till I 
see my way. 
It is the one step in the dark beyond 
Our expectation, that amazes us. 

[Distant shouts and horns. 
Hillo! Hillo! 

[Exit Synorix. Shouts and horns. 



SCENE II.— A Room in the 
Tetrarch's House 

Frescoed figures on the walls. Evening. 
Moonlight outside. A couch with 
cushions on it. A small table with a 
flagon of wine, cups, plate of grapes, 
etc. , also the cup of Scene I. A ^ chair 
with drapery on it. 

Cam MA enters, and opens curtains of 
window 

Ca7?2ma. No Sinnatus yet — and there 
the rising moon. 
[Takes up a cithern and sits or. cojuh. 
Plays and sings. 



SCENE II 



THE CUP 



753 



Moon on the field and the foam, 

Moon on the waste and the wold, 
Moon bring him home, bring him home 

Safe from the dark and the cold, 
Home, sweet moon, bring him home, 
Home with the flock to the fold — 

Safe from the wolf 

[Listening. ) Is he coming ? I thought 

I heard 
A footstep. No not yet. They say that 

Rome 
Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear 

lord mixt 
With some conspiracy against the wolf. 
This mountain shepherd never dream'd 

of Rome. 
{Sings.) Safe from the wolf to the 

fold 

And that great break of precipice that runs 
Thro' all the wood, where twentyyears ago 
Huntsman, and hound, and deer were 

all neck-broken ! 
Nay, here he comes. 

Enter Sii<i'^A.TVS followed by Synorix 
Sinnatns {atigrily). I tell thee, my 
good fellow. 
My arrow struck the stag. 

Synorix. But was it so ? 

Nay, you were further oft": besides the 

wind 
Went with my arrow. 

Sinjiattis. I am sure / struck him. 

Synorix. And I am just as sure, my 
lord, / struck him. 
[Aside.) And I may strike your game 
when you are gone. 
Cai7ima. Come, come, we will not 
quarrel about the stag. 
I have had a weary day in watching you. 
Yours must have been a wearier. Sit 

and eat, 
And take a hunter's vengeance on the 
meats. 
Sinnattts. No, no — we have eaten 

— we are heated. Wine ! 
Cavima. Who is our guest ? 
Sinnatns. Strato he calls himself 

[Camma offers wine to Synorix, while 
Sinnatus helps himself. 
T 



SinnatiLs. I pledge you, Strato. 

\^Drinks. 

Synorix. And I you, my lord. 

\Drinks. 

Sinnatns [seeing the cup sent to Camma). 

What's here ? 
Camma. A strange gift sent to me 

to-day. 
A sacred cup saved from a blazing 

shrine 
Of our great Goddess, in some city 

where 
Antonius past. I had believed that 

Rome 
Made war upon the peoples not the 
Gods. 
Synorix. Most like the city rose 
against Antonius, 
Whereon he fired it, and the sacred 

shrine 
By chance was burnt along with it. 

Sinnattis. Had you then 

No message with the cup ? 

Camma. Why, yes, see here. 

\Gives hif?i the scroll. 
Sinnatns [reads). ' To the admired 
Camma, — beheld you afar oft" — loved you 
— sends you this cup — the cup we use in 
our marriages — cannot at present write 
himself other than 

'A Galatian serving by force 
IN THE Roman Legion.' 
Serving by force ! Were there no boughs 

to hang on. 
Rivers to drown in ? Serve by force ? 

No force 
Could make me serve by force. 

Synorix. How then, my lord ? 

The Roman is encampt without your 

city — 
The force of Rome a thousand-fold our 

own. 
Must all Galatia hang or drown her- 
self? 
And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this 
province — 
Sinnatus. Province ! 
Synorix. Well, well, they 

call it so in Rome. 
Sinnatjis [angrily). Province ! 

3C 



754 



THE CUP 



ACT I 



Synorix. A noble anger ! but An- 

tonius 
To-morrow will demand your tribute — 

you, 
Can you make war ? Have you alliances ? 
Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia ? 
We have had our leagues of old with 

Eastern kings. 
There is my hand — if such a league there 

be. 
What will you do ? 

Sinnahis. Not set myself abroach 

And run my mind out to a random 

guest 
Who join'd me in the hunt. You saw 

my hounds 
True to the scent ; and we have two- 

legg'd dogs 
Among us who can smell a true occasion, 
And when to bark and how. 

Synorix. My good Lord Sinnatus, 

I once was at the hunting of a lion. 
Roused by the clamour of the chase he 

woke, 
Came to the front of the wood — his 

monarch mane 
Bristled about his quick ears — he stood 

there 
Staring upon the hunter. A score of 



Gnaw'd at his ankles : at the last he felt 
The trouble of his feet, put forth one 

paw, 
Slew four, and knew it not, and so 

remain'd 
Staring upon the hunter : and this Rome 
Will crush you if you wrestle with her ; 

then 
Save for some slight report in her own 

Senate 
Scarce know what she has done. 

{Aside. ) Would I could move him, 
Provoke him any way ! {Aloud.) The 

Lady Camma, 
Wise I am sure as she is beautiful. 
Will close with me that to submit at once 
Is better than a wholly-hopeless war. 
Our gallant citizens murder'd all in vain, 
Son, husband, brother gash'd to death in 

vain. 



And the small state more cruelly trampled 

on 
Than had she never moved. 

Camma. Sir, I had once 

A boy who died a babe ; but were he 

living 
And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd 

it, I 
Would set him in the front rank of the 

fight 
With scarce a pang. {Rises.) Sir, if a 

state submit 
At once, she may be blotted out at once 
And swallow'd in the conqueror's 

chronicle. 
Whereas in wars of freedom and defence 
The glory and grief of battle won or lost 
Solders a race together — yea — tho' thev 

fail. 
The names of those who fought and fell 

are like 
A bank'd-up fire that flashes out again 
From century to century, and at last 
May lead them on to victory — I hope 

so — 
Like phantoms of the Gods. 

Simiatus. Well spoken, wife. 

Synorix (bowing). Madam, so well I 

yield. 
Sinnahis. I should not wonder 

If Synorix, who has dwelt three years in 

Rome 
And wrought his worst against his native 

land. 
Returns with this Antonius. 

Synorix. What is Synorix ? 

Sinnatus. Galatian, and not know? 

This Synorix 
Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also — did 
Dishonour to our wives. 

Synorix. Perhaps you judge him 

With feeble charity : being as you tell me 
Tetrarch, there might be willing wives 

enough 
To feel dishonour, honour. 

Camma. Do not say so. 

I know of no such wives in all Galatia. 
There may be courtesans for aught I 

know 
Whose life is one dishonour. 



SCENE II 



THE CUP 



755 



Enter ATTENDANT 

Attendajit {aside). My lord, the men I 
Sinnatus {aside). Our anti - Roman 

faction ? 
Attendant {aside). Ay, my lord. 

Synofix {overhearing). {Aside.) I 
have enough — their anti-Roman 
faction. 
Sinnatus {aloud). Some friends of 
mine would speak with me with- 
out. 
You, Strato, make good cheer till I 
return. {Exit. 

Synorix. I have much to say, no 
time to say it in. 
First, lady, know myself am that Galatian 
Who sent the cup. 

Camma. I thank you from my heart. 
Synorix. Then that I serve with 
Rome to serve Galatia. 
That is my secret : keep it, or yon sell 

me 
To torment and to death. \Coming closer. 
For your ear only — 
I love you — for your love to the great 

Goddess. 
The Romans sent me here a spy upon 

you. 
To draw you and your husband to your 

doom. 
I'd sooner die than do it. 
\Takes out paper given him by Antonius. 
This paper sign'd 
Antonius — will you take it, read it? 
there ! 
Canuna. {Reads.) ' You are to seize 

on Sinnatus, — if ' 

Synorix. {Snatches paper.) No more. 
What follows is for no wife's eyes. O 

Camma, 
Rome has a glimpse of this conspiracy ; 
Rome never yet hath spar'd conspirator. 
Horrible ! flaying, scourging, crucify- 
ing 

Camma. I am tender enough. Why 

do you practise on me ? 
Synorix. Why should I practise on 



you 



How you wrong me 



I am sure of being every way malign'd. 



And if you should betray me to your 

husband 

Camma. Will you betray him by 

this order ? 

Synorix. See, 

I tear it all to pieces, never dream'd 

Of acting on it. \Tears the paper. 

Camma. I owe you thanks for ever. 

Synorix. Hath Sinnatus never told 

you of this plot ? 
Camyna. What plot ? 
Synorix. A child's sand- 

castle on the beach 
For the next wave — all seen, — all calcu- 

latea. 
All known by Rome. No chance for 
Sinnatus. 
Camma. Why said you not as much 

to my brave Sinnatus ? 
Synorix. Brave — ay — too brave, too 
over-confident, 
Too like to ruin himself, and you, and 

me ! 
Who else, with this black thunderbolt of 

Rome 
Above him, would have chased the stag 

to-day 
In the full face of all the Roman camp ? 
h. miracle that they let him home again, 
Not caught, maim'd, blinded him. 

[Camma shttdders. 

{Aside. ) I have made her tremble. 

{Alozid.) I know they mean to torture 

him to death. 
I dare not tell him how I came to know 

it ; 
I durst not trust him with — my serving 

Rome 
To serve Galatia : you heard him on the 

letter. 
Not say as much ? I all but said as 

much. 
I am sure I told him that his plot was 

folly. 
I say it to you — you are wiser — Rome 

knows all, 
But you know not the savagery of 
Rome. 
Camma. O — have you power with 
Rome ? use it for him ! 



756 



THE CUP 



Synorix. Alas ! I have no such 
power with Rome. All that 
Lies with Antonius. 

\_As if struck by a sudden thought. 
Comes over to her. 

He will pass to-morrow 
In the gray dawn before the Temple 

doors. 
You have beauty, — O great beauty, — and 

Antonius, 
So gracious toward women, never yet 
Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead to 

him, 
I am sure you will prevail. 

Cam>na. Still — I should tell 

My husband. 

Synorix. Will he let you plead for 
him 
To a Roman ? 

Camma. I fear not. 

Synorix. Then do not tell him. 

Or tell him, if you will, when you return, 
When you have charm'd our general into 

mercy, 
And all is safe again. O dearest lady, 
\I\Iurmurs of ' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' 
heard outside. 
Think, — torture, — death, — and come. 

Camma. I will, I will. 

And I will not betray you. 

Syno7'ix {aside). [As Sinnatus enters.) 
Stand apart. 

Enter Sinnatus a7id Attendant 
Sinnatus. Thou art that Synorix ! 
One whom thou hast wrong'd 
Without there, knew thee with Antonius. 
They howl for thee, to rend thee head 
from limb. 
Synorix. I am much malign'd. I 

thought to serve Galatia. 
Sinnatus. Serve thyself first, villain ! 
They shall not harm 
My guest within my house. There ! 

{points to door) there ! this door 
Opens upon the forest ! Out, begone ! 
Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy. 
Syno7-ix. However I thank thee 
{draws his sword) ; thou hast 
saved my life. \Exit. 



Sinnatus. {To Attendant.) Return 
and tell them Synorix is not here. 
\Exit Attendant. 
What did that villain Synorix say to 
you ? 
Camma. Is he — that — Synorix ? 
Sinnatiis. Wherefore should you 

doubt it ? 
One of the men there knew him. 

Camma. Only one, 

And he perhaps mistaken in the face. 
Sinnatus. Come, come, could he 

deny it ? What did he say ? 
Camma. What shotildhe say? 
Sinnatus. What shoti/d he say, my 
wife? 
He should say this, that being Tetrarch 

once 
His own true people cast him from their 

doors 
Like a base coin. 

Ca?}ima. Not kindly to them ? 

Sinnatus. Kindly ? 

O the most kindly Prince in all the 

world ! 
Would clap his honest citizens on the 

back. 
Bandy their own rude jests with them, 

be curious 
About the welfare of their babes, their 

wives, 
O ay — their wives — their wives. What 

should he say ? 
He should say nothing to my wife if I 
Were by to throttle him ! He steep'd 

himself 
In all the lust of Rome. How should 

you guess 
What manner of beast it is ? 

Camma. Yet he seem'd kindly, 

And said he loathed the cruelties that 

Rome 
Wrought on her vassals. 

Sinnatus. Did he, honest man ? 

Camma. And you, that seldom brook 
the stranger here, 
Have let him hunt the stag with you to- 
day. 
Sinnatus. I warrant you now, he said 
he struck the stag. 



J 



SCENE III 



THE CUP 



757 



Ca/?itfta. Why no, he never touch'd 

upon the stag. 
Sinnatiis. Why so I said, 7ny arrow. 

V/ell, to sleep. 

{Goes to close door. 
Camma. Nay, close not yet the door 

upon a night 
That looks half day. 

Sinnatiis. True ; and my friends may 

spy him 
And slay him as he runs. 

Camma. He is gone already. 

Oh look, — 3'on grove upon the mountain, 

— white 
In the sweet moon as with a lovelier 

snow ! 
But what a blotch of blackness under- 
neath ! 
Sinnatus, you remember — yea, you must. 
That there three years ago — the vast 

vine-bowers 
Ran to the summit of the trees, and 

dropt 
Their streamers earthward, which a 

breeze of May 
Took ever and anon, and open'd out 
The purple zone of hill and heaven ; 

there 
You told your love ; and like the sway- 
ing vines — 
Yea, — with our eyes, — our hearts, our 

prophet hopes 
Let in the happy distance, and that all 
But cloudless heaven which we have 

found together 
In our three married years ! You kiss'd 

me there 
For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me 

now. 
Sinnattis. First kiss. {Kisses her.) 

There then. You talk almost as 

if it 
Might be the last. 

Camma. Will you not eat a little ? 
Sinnattis. No, no, we found a goat- 
herd's hut and shared 
His fruits and milk. Liar ! You will 

believe 
Now that he never struck the stag— a 

brave one 



Which you shall see to-morrow. 

Camma. I rise to-morrow 

In the gray dawn, and take this holy cup 
To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis. 
Sinnattts. Good ! 

Camma. If I be not back in 

half an hour, 
Come after me. 

Sinnatiis. What ! is there danger ? 
Camma. Nay, 

None that I know : 'tis but a step from 

here 
To the Temple. 

Sinnatus. All my brain is full of 

sleep. 

Wake me before you go, I'll after you — 

After vie now ! {Closes door and exit. 

Camma [drawing curtains). Your 

shadow. Synorix — 

His face was not malignant, and he said 

That men malign'd him. Shall I go ? 

Shall I go ? 
Death, torture — 
' He never yet flung back a woman's 

prayer ' — 
I go, but I will have my dagger with 
me. {Exit. 

SCENE III.— Same as Scene L 
Dawn 

Music and Singing in the Temple 

Enter Synorix watchfully, after him 
PuBLius and Soldiers 

Synorix. Publius ! 
Piiblius. Here ! 

Synorix. Do you re- 

member what I told you ? 
Publius. When you cry ' Rome, Rome, ' 
to seize 
On whomsoever may be talking with 

you. 
Or man, or woman, as traitors unto 
Rome. 
Synorix. Right. Back again. How 

many of you are there ? 
Publius. Some half a score. 

{Exeunt Soldiers and Publius. 



758 



THE CUP 



ACT I 



Synorix. I have my guard 

about me. 
I need not fear the crowd that hunted me 
Across the woods, last night. I hardly 

gain'd 
The camp at midnight. Will she come 

to me 
Now that she knows me Synorix ? Not 

if Sinnatus 
Has told her all the truth about me. 

Well, 
I cannot help the mould that I was cast 

in. 
I fling all that upon my fate, my star. 
I know that I am genial, I would be 
Happy, and make all others happy so 
They did not thwart me. Nay, she will 

not come. 
Yet if she be a true and loving wife 
She may, perchance, to save this husband. 

Ay! 
See, see, my white bird stepping toward 

the snare. 
Why now I count it all but miracle, 
That this brave heart of mine should 

shake me so, 
As helplessly as some unbearded boy's 
When first he meets his maiden in a 

bower. 

l^Enter Camma {with cup\ 
The lark first takes the sunlight on his 

wing. 
But you, twin sister of the morning 

star, 
Forelead the sun. 

Camma. Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Not here as yet. You are 

too early for him. 

l^She crosses towards Temple. 
Synorix. Nay, whither go you now ? 
Camma. To lodge this cup 

Within the holy shrine of Artemis, 
And so return. 

Synorix. To find Antonius here. 

\She goes into the Temple^ he looks 
after her. 
The loveliest life that ever drew the 

light 
From heaven to brood upon her, and 

enrich 



Earth with her shadow ! I trust she will 

return. 
These Romans dare not violate the 

Temple. 
No, I must lure my game into the camp. 
A woman I could live and die for. 

What ! 
Die for a woman, what new faith is 

this ? 
I am not mad, not sick, not old enough 
To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for 

her, 
Camma the stately, Camma the great- 
hearted, 
So mad, I fear some strange and evil 

chance 
Coming upon me, for by the Gods I 

seem 
Strange to myself. 

Re-enter Camma 

Camma. Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Where ? As I said before, 

you are still too early. 
Camma. Too early to be here alone 
with thee : 
For whether men malign thy name, or 

no, 
It bears an evil savour among women. 
Where is Antonius ? {Lotid. ) 

Synorix. Madam, as you know 

The camp is half a league without the 

city ; 
If you will walk with me we needs must 

meet 
Antonius coming, or at least shall find 

him 
There in the camp. 

Camma. No, not one step with thee. 
Where is Antonius ? {Louder. ) 

Synorix {advancing towai'ds her). 
Then for your own sake. 
Lady, I say it with all gentleness. 
And for the sake of Sinnatus your 

husband, 
I must compel you. 

Camma {drawing her dagger). Stay ! 

— too near is death. 
Syjiorix {disarming her). Is it not 
easy to disarm a woman ? 



ACT II 



THE CUP 



759 



Enter Sinnatus {seizes him from behind 
by the throat). 

Synorix [throttled and scarce audible). 

Rome ! Rome ! 
Sinnatus. Adulterous dog ! 

Synorix {stabbijtg him with Gamma's 
dagger). What ! will you have it ? 

[Camma titters a cry and 

runs to Sinnatus. 

Sinnattcs {falls backivard). I have it 

in my heart — to the Temple — 

fly- 

For my sake — or they seize on thee. 

Remember ! 
Away— farewell ! \^Dies. 

Camma {runs tip the steps into the 
Temple^ looking back). Farewell ! 
Synorix {seeing her escape). The 
women of the Temple drag her in. 
Publius ! Publius ! No, 
Antonius would not suffer me to break 
Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. 

[Looking down at Sinnatus. 
' Adulterous dog ! ' that red -faced rage 

at me ! 
Then with one quick short stab — eternal 

peace. 
So end all passions. Then what use in 

passions ? 
To warm the cold bounds of our dying 

life 
And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy, 
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help us, 

keep us 
From seeing all too near that urn, those 

ashes 
Which all must be. Well used, they 

serve us well. 
I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition 
Is like the sea wave, which the more you 

drink, 
The more you thirst — yea — drink too 

much, as men 
Have done on rafts of wreck — it drives 

you mad. 
I will be no such wreck, am no such 

gamester 
As, having won the stake, would dare 
the chance 



Of double, or losing all. The Roman 

Senate, 
For I have always play'd into their hands. 
Means me the crown. And Camma for 

my bride — 
The people love her — if I win her love. 
They too will cleave to me, as one with 

her. 
There then I rest, Rome's tributary king. 
[Looking down on Sinnatus. 
Why did I strike him ? — having proof 

enough 
Against the man, I surely should have left 
That stroke to Rome. He saved my life 

too. Did he ? 
1 1 seem'd so. I have play 'd the sudden fool . 
And that sets her against me — for the 

moment. 
Camma — well, well, I never found the 

woman 
I could not force or wheedle to my will. 
She will be glad at last to wear my crown. 
And I will make Galatia prosperous too, 
And we will chirp among our vines, and 

smile 
At bygone things till that {pointing to 

Sinnatus) eternal peace. 
Rome ! Rome ! 

{Enter PubUus and Soldiers. 
Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye 

not before ? 
Publius. Why come we now ? Whom 

shall we seize upon ? 
Synorix {pointing to the body of Sin- 
natus). The body of that dead 

traitor Sinnatus. 
Bear him away. 

Mtisic and Singing in Temple. 

ACT II 

SCENE.— Interior of the Temple 
OF Artemis 

Small gold gates on platform in front of 
the veil before the colossal statue of 
the Goddess, and in the centre of the 
Temple a tripod altar, on which is a 
lighted lamp. L.amps {lighted) sus- 
pended between each pillar. Tripods, 
vases, garlands of flowers, etc., about 



76o 



THE CUP 



stage. Altar at back close to Goddess, 
with ttvo cups. Solemn imtsic. Priest- 
esses decorating the Temple. 

{The Chorus <?/" PRIESTESSES sing as 

they enter) 

Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, 

hear us, and bless us ! 
Artemis, thou that art Hfe to the wind, to 
the wave, to the glebe, to the fire ! 
Hear thy people who praise thee ! O help 

us from all that oppress us ! 
Hear thy priestesses hymn thy glory ! O 
yield them all their desire ! 
Priestess. Phoebe, that man from 
Synorix, who has been 
So oft to see the Priestess, waits once more 
Before the Temple. 

Phcsbe. We will let her know. 

{Signs to one of the Priestesses^ who 
goes out. 
Since Camma fled from Synorix to our 

Temple, 
And for her beauty, stateliness, and power. 
Was chosen Priestess here, have you not 

mark'd 
Her eyes were ever on the marble floor ? 
To-day they are fixt and bright — they 

look straight out. 
Hath she made up her mind to marry him? 
Priestess. To marry him who stabb'd 
her Sinnatus. 
You will not easily make me credit that. 
Phcebe. Ask her. 
Enter Camma as Priestess {in front of 

the curtains) 
Priestess. You will not marry Synorix ? 
Canima. My girl, I am the bride of 
Death, and only 
Marry the dead. 

Priestess. Not Synorix then ? 

Caf7i?na. My girl, 

At times this oracle of great Artemis 
Has no more power than other oracles 
To speak directly. 

Phcebe. Will you speak to him, 

The messenger from Synorix who waits 
Before the Temple ? 

Camma. Why not ? Let him enter. 
[Comes forward on to step by tripod. 



Enter a Messenger 

Alessenger {kneels). Greeting and 
health from Synorix ! More than 
once 
You have refused his hand. When last 

I saw you. 
You all but yielded. He entreatsyou now 
For your last answer. When he struck 

at Sinnatus — 
As I have many a time declared to you — 
He knew not at the moment who had 

fasten'd 
About his throat — he begs you to for- 
get it 
As scarce his act : — a random stroke : all 

else 
Was love for you : he prays you to be- 
lieve him. 
Camma. I pray him to believe — 

that I believe him. 
Messenger. Why that is well. You 

mean to marry him ? 
Canima. I mean to marry him — if 

that be well. 
Messenger. This very day the Romans 
crown him king 
For all his faithful services to Rome. 
He wills you then this day to marry him, 
And so be throned together in the sight 
Of all the people, that the world may know 
You twain are reconciled, and no more 

feuds 
Disturb our peaceful vassalage to Rome. 
Camma. To-day ? Too sudden. I 
will brood upon it. 
When do they crown him ? 

Messenger. Even now. 

Camma. And where ? 

Messenger. Flere by your temple. 
Camma. Come once more to me 

Before the crowning, — I will answer you- 
\Exit Messenger. 
Phoebe. Great Artemis ! O Camma, 
can it be well. 
Or good, or wise, that you should clasp 

a hand 
Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus ? 
Camma. Good ! mine own dagger 
driven by Synorix found 



THE CUP 



761 



Ail good in the true heart of Sinnatus, 
And quench'd it there for ever. Wise ! 
Life yields to death and wisdom bows to 

Fate, 
Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man 
Speak well ? We cannot fight imperial 

Rome, 
But he and I are both Galatian-born, 
And tributary sovereigns, he and I 
Might teach this Rome — from knowledge 

of our people — 
Where to lay on her tribute — heavily here 
And lightly there. Might I not live for 

that, 
And drown all poor self-passion in the 

sense 
Of publiq good ? 

Phccbe. I am sure you will not 

marry him. 
Canima. Are you so sure ? I pray 

you wait a^id see. 

\Shoiits {from the distance)^ 

' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' 

Camma. Synorix, Synorix ! So they 

cried Sinnatus 
Not so long since — they sicken me. The 

One 
Who shifts his policy suffers something, 

must 
Accuse hiiTiself, excuse himself; the 

Many 
Will feel no shame to give themselves the 

lie. 
Phoebe. Most like it was the Roman 

soldier shouted. 
Camma. Their shield-borne patriot 

of the morning star 
Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of the 

dawn 
The clamour'd darling of their afternoon ! 
And that same head they would have 

play'd at ball with 
And kick'd it featureless — they now 

would crown. 

\jFlourish of h'limpets. 

Elder a Galaiian Nobleman with crown 
on a ctishion. 
Noble {kneels). Greeting and health 
from Synorix. He sends you 



This diadem of the first Galatian Queen, 
That you may feed your fancy on the 

glory of it, 
And join your life this day with his, and 

wear it 
Beside him on his throne. He waits 

your answ^er. 
Camilla. Tell him there is one shadow 

among the shadows. 
One ghost of all the ghosts — as yet so 

new. 
So strange among them — such an alien 

there, 
So much of husband in it still — that if 
The shout of Synorix and Camma sit- 
ting 
Upon one throne, should reach it, it 

would rise 
He ! . . . He, with that red star between 

the ribs. 
And my knife there — and blast the king 

and me, 
And blanch the crowd with horror. I 

dare not, sir ! 
Throne him — and then the marriage — ay 

and tell him 
That I accept the diadem of Galatia — 

\^All are amazed. 
Yea, that ye saw me crown myself 

withal. \Puts on the crown. 

I wait him his crown'd queen. 

Noble. So will I tell him. ^Exit. 

Music. Two Priestesses go np the steps 
before the shrine, draw the ctirtains on 
either side {discovering the Goddess), 
theti open the gates and remain on 
steps, one on either side, and kneel. 
A priestess goes off and returns with 
a veil of man-iage, then assists Phcebe 
to veil Camma. At the same time 
Priestesses enter and stand on either 
side of the Temple. Camma and all the 
Priestesses kneel, raise their hands to the 
Goddess^ and bow down. 

[Shoztts, ' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' All rise. 

Camma. Fling wide the doors and 
let the new-made children 
Of our imperial mother see the show. 

\Sunlight pptcrs throtigh the doors. 



762 



THE CUP 



ACT II 



I have no heart to do it. {To Phcebe.) 
Look for nie ! 

\_Cr ouches. Phffibe looks out. 

{Shouts, ' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' 

Phoebe. He climbs the throne. Hot 

blood, ambition, pride 

So bloat and redden his face — O would 

it were 
His third last apoplexy ! O bestial ! 
O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus, 

Cavinia {on the ground). You wrong 
him surely ; far as the face goes 
A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus. 
Phoebe {aside). How dare she say it ? 
I could hate her for it 
But that she is distracted. 

\A flourish of trumpets. 
Cainina. Is he crown'd ? 

Phoebe. Ay, there they crown him. 
\^Crowd without shout ^ ' Synorix ! 
Synorix ! ' 
[A Priestess brings a box of spices to 
Camma, who throws them on the 
altarflame. 
Camma. Rouse the dead altar-flame, 
fling in the spices, 
Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. 
Let all the air reel into a mist of odour. 
As in the midmost heart of Paradise. 
Lay down the Lydian carpets for the 

king, 
The king should pace on purple to his 

bride, 
And music there to greet my lord the 
king. \_Music. 

{ To Phoebe. ) Dost thou remember when 

I wedded Sinnatus ? 
Ay, thou wast there — whether from 

maiden fears 
Or reverential love for him I loved, 
Or some strange second-sight, the mar- 
riage cup 
Wherefrom we make libation to the 

Goddess 
So shook within my hand, that the red 

wine 
Ran down the marble and lookt like 
blood, like blood. 
Phoebe. I do remember your first- 
marriage fears. 



Camma. I have no fears at this my 
second marriage. 
See here — I stretch my hand out — hold 

it there. 
How steady it is ! 

Phcebe. Steady enough to stab him ! 
Camma. O hush ! O peace ! This 
violence ill becomes 
The silence of our Temple. Gentleness, 
Low words best chime with this solem- 
nity. 

Enter a procession of Priestesses and 
Children bearing garlands and golden 
goblets, and strewing flowers. 

Enter Synorix {as King, with gold latir el- 
wreath ci'own and purple robes), fol- 
lowed by KNiONWi^, PuBLius, Noble- 
men, Gtiards, and the Populace. 
Camma. Hail, King ! 
Synorix. Hail, Queen ! 

The wheel of Fate has roll'd me to the 

top. 
I would that happiness were gold, that I 
Might cast my largess of it to the crowd ! 
I would that every man made feast to- 
day 
Beneath the shadow of our pines and 

planes ! 
For all my truer life begins to-day. 
The past is like a travell'd land now sunk 
Below the horizon — like a barren shore 
That grew salt weeds, but now all 

drown'd in love 
And glittering at full tide — the bounteous 

bays 
And havens filling with a blissful sea. 
Nor speak I now too mightily, being 

King 
And happy ! happiest, Lady, in my 

power 
To make you happy. 

Cam?na. Yes, sir. 

Synorix. Our Antonius, 

Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' Rome 

may set 
A free foot where she will, yet of his 

courtesy 
Entreats he may be present at our 

marriage. 



THE CUP 



763 



Camilla. Let him come — a legion 


That crowns it, hear. 


with him, if he will. 


Who causest the safe earth to shudder 


'To Antonius.) Welcome, my lord An- 


and gape, 


tonius, to our Temple. 


And gulf and flatten in her closing chasm 


; To Synorix. ) You on this side the altar. 


Domed cities, hear. 


( To Antonius. ) You on that. 


Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken a 


Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. 


province 


{All face the Goddess. Priestesses, 


To a cinder, hear. 


Children, Populace, and Gtiards 


Whose winter-cataracts find a realm and 


kneel — the others remain standing. 


leave it 


Synorix. O Thou, that dost inspire 


A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I call thee 


the germ with life, 


To make my marriage prosper to my 


The child, a thread within the house of 


wish 1 


birth. 


Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, 


And give him limbs, then air, and send 


Ephesian Artemis ! 


him forth 


Cainma. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, 


The glory of his father — Thou whose 


Galatian Artemis ! 


breath 


I call on our own Goddess in our own 


Is balmy wind to robe our hills with 


Temple. 


grass, 


Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her. 


And kindle all our vales with myrtle- 


Galatian Artemis ! 


blossom. 


{Thunder. All rise. 


And roll the golden oceans of our grain. 


Synorix {aside). Thunder ! Ay, ay, 


And sway the long grape-bunches of our 


the storm was drawing hither 


vines, 


Across the hills when I was being 


And fill all hearts with fatness and the 


crown'd. 


lust 


I wonder if I look as pale as she ? 


Of plenty — make me happy in my 


Cainma. Art thou — still bent — on 


marriage ! 


marrying ? 


Chorus [chanting). Artemis, Artemis, 


Synorix. Surely — yet 


hear him, Ionian Artemis ! 


These are strange Mords to speak to 


Cainina. O Thou that slayest the 


Artemis. 


babe within the womb 


Camilla. Words are not always what 


Or in the being born, or after slayest him 


they seem, my King. 


As boy or man, great Goddess, whose 


I will be faithful to thee till thou die. 


storm-voice 


Synorix. I thank thee, Gamma, — I 


Unsockets the strong oak, and rears his 


thank thee. 


root 


Cainma {turning to Antonius). An- 


Beyond his head, and strows our fruits, 


tonius, 


and lays 


Much graced are we that our Queen 


Our golden grain, and runs to sea and 


Rome in you 


makes it 


Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms. 


Foam over all the fleeted wealth of kings 


{Turns, goes up steps to altar be/ore 


And peoples, hear. 


the Goddess. Takes a cup from 


Whose arrow is the plague — whose quick 


off the altar. Holds it towards 


flash splits 


Antonius. Antonius goes up to 


The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower to 


the foot of the steps opposite to 


the rock. 


Synorix. 


And hurls the victor's column down with 


You see this cup, my lord. 


him 


{Gives it to him. 



764 



THE CUP 



ACT 11 



Antonius. Most curious I 

The many-breasted mother Artemis 
Emboss'd upon it. 

Canwia. It is old, I know not 

How many hundred years. Give it me 

again. 
It is the cup belonging our own Temple. 
{Puts it back oil altar, and takes tip 
the cup of Act I. Showing it to 
Antonius. 
Here is another sacred to the Goddess, 
The gift of Synorix ; and the Goddess, 

being 
For this most grateful, wills, thro' me 

her Priestess, 
In honour of his gift and of our mar- 
riage, 
That Synorix should drink from his own 
cup. 
Synorix. I thank thee. Gamma, — I 

thank thee. 
Camma. For — my lord — 

It is our ancient custom in Galatia 
That ere two souls be knit for life and 

death. 
They two should drink together from one 

cup, 
In symbol of their married unity, 
Making libation to the Goddess. Bring me 
The costly wines we use in marriages. 
\They bring in a large jar of wine. 
Camma pours wine into cup. 
{To Synorix.) See here, I fill it. {To 
Antonius.) Will you drink, my 
lord ? 
Antonius. I ? Why should I ? I 

am not to be married. 
Camma. But that might bring a 

Roman blessing on us. 
Antonius {refusing cup). Thy pardon, 

Priestess ! 
Canijua. Thou art in the right. 

This blessing is for Synorix and for me. 
See first I make libation to the Goddess, 
\_Makes libation. 
And now I drink. 

[Driiiks and fills the cup again. 
Thy turn, Galatian King. 
Drink and drink deep — our marriage will 
be fruitful. 



Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt 
make me happy. 
[Synorix goes up to her. She hands 
hi?n the ctep. He drinks. 
Synorix. There, Camma ! I have 
almost drain'd the cup — 
A few drops left. 

Camma. Libation to the Goddess. 

\He throws the remaining drops on 

the altar and gives Camma the cup. 

Camma {placing the cup on the altar). 

Why then the Goddess hears. 

{Comes down and forward to tripod. 

Antonius follows. 

Antonius 
Wliere wast thou on that morning when 

I came 
To plead to thee for Sinnatus's life, 
Beside this temple half a year ago ? 
Antonius. I never heard of this re- 
quest of thine. 
Synorix {coming forward hastily tofoi 
of tripod steps). I sought him and 
I could not find him. Pray 

you, 

Go on with the marriage rites. 

Camma. Antonius 

' Camma ! ' who spake ? 

Antonius. Not I. 

Phcebe. Nor any here. 

Camma. I am all but sure that some 
one spake. Antonius, 
If you had found him plotting against 

Rome, 
Would you have tortured Sinnatus to 
death ? 
Antonius. No thought was mine of 
torture or of death. 
But had I found him plotting, I had 

counsell'd him 
To rest froiji vain resistance. Rome is 

fated 
To rule the world. Then, if he had not 

listen'd, 
I might have sent him prisoner to Rome. 
Synorix. Why do you palter with the 
ceremony ? 
Go on with the marriage rites. 

Camma. They are finish'd. 

Synorix. How ) 






THE CUP 



765 



Ca?nvia. Thou hast drunk deep 
enough to make me happy. 
Dost thou not feel the love I bear to thee 
Glow thro' thy veins ? 

Synorix. The love I bear to thee 

Glows thro' my veins since first I look'd 

on thee. 
But wherefore slur the perfect ceremony ? 
The sovereign of Galatia weds his Queen. 
Let all be done to the fullest in the sight 
Of all the Gods. 

Nay, rather than so clip 
The flowery robe of Hvmen, we would 

add 
Some golden fringe of gorgeousness beyond 
Old use, to make the day memorial, when 
Synorix, first King, Gamma, first Queen 

o' the Realm, 
Drew here the richest lot from Fate, to 

live 
And die together. 

This pain — what is it ? — again ? 
I had a touch of this last year — in — 

Rome. 
Yes, yes. {To Antonius.) Your arm — 

a moment — It will pass. 
I reel beneath the weight of utter joy — 
This all too happy day, crown — queen at 
once. \Staggers. 

O all ye Gods — ^Jupiter ! — Jupiter ! 

\^Falh backward. 
Camma. Dost thou cry out upon the 
Gods of Rome ? 
Thou art Galatian-born. Our Artemis 
Has vanquish'd their Diana. 

Synorix [on the ground). I am 
poison'd. 
She — close the Temple door. Let her 
not fly. 
Camma {leaning on tripod). Have I 
not drunk of the same cup with 
thee? 
Synorix. Ay, by the Gods of Rome 
and all the world. 
She too — she too — the bride ! the 

Queen ! and I — 
Monstrous ! I that loved her. 

Camvm. I loved him. 

Synorix. O murderous mad-woman ! 
I pray you lift me 



And make me walk awhile. I have 

heard these poisons 
INIay be walk'd down. 

[Antonius a«^Publius raise him tip. 

My feet are tons of lead. 

They will break in the earth — I am 

sinking — hold me — 
Let me alone. 

\_They leave him ; he sinks down on 
ground. 

Too late — thought myself wise — 
A woman's dupe. Antonius, tell the 

Senate 
I have been most true to Rome — would 

have been true 

To her — if — if {Falls as if dead. 

Cajuma {coming and leaning over him). 

So falls the throne of an hour. 

Synorix {half rising). Throne? is it 

thou ? the Fates are throned, 

not we — 
Not guilty of ourselves — thy doom and 

mine — 
Thou — coming my way too — Camma — 

good-night. {Dies. 

Camma {upheld by weeping Priestesses). 

Thy way? poor worm, crawl 

down thine own black hole 
To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is he 

there ? 
I meant thee to have foUow'd — better 

thus. 
Nay, if my people must be thralls of 

Rome, 
He is gentle, tho' a Roman. 
{Sinks back into the arms of the Priestesses. 
Antonius. Thou art one 

With thine own people, and though a 

Roman I 
Forgive thee, Camma, 

Camma {raising herself). ' Cam ma ! ' 

— why there again 
I am most sure that some one calFd. O 

women. 
Ye will have Roman masters. I am 

glad 
I shall not see it. Did not some old 

Greek 
Say death was the chief good ? He had 

my fate for it, 



766 



THE CUP 



Poison'd. {Sinks back again.) Have I 

the crown on ? I will go 
To meet him, crown'd ! crown'd victor 

of my will — 
On my last voyage — but the wind has 

fail'd— 
Growing dark too — but light enough to 

row. 
Row to the blessed Isles ! the blessed 

Isles : — 
Sinnatus ! 



Why comes he not to meet me ? It is 

the crown 

Offends him — and my hands are too sleepy 

To lift it off. [Phoebe takes the crown off. 

Who touch'd me then ? I thank you. 

[^Rises, with outspread arms. 

There — league on league of ever-shining 

shore 
Beneath an ever-rising sun — I see him — 
* Gamma, Gamma ! ' Sinnatus, Sinnatus ! 

IDies. 



THE FALCON 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

The Count Federigo degli Alberighi. 
FiLippo, Count' s foster-brotJier. 
The Lady Giovanna. 
Elisabetta, the Count's nurse. 



SCENE. — An Italian Cottage. 
Castle and Mountains seen 
THROUGH Window. 

Elisabetta discovered seated on stool in 
window darning. The Count with 
Falcon on his hand comes down throtigh 
the door at back. A ivithered wreath 
on the wall. 

Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady 
Giovanna, who hath been away so long, 
came back last night with her son to the 
castle. 

Count. Hear that, my bird ! Art 

thou not jealous of her ? 
My princess of the cloud, my plumed 

purveyor, 
My far-eyed queen of the winds — thou 

that canst soar 
Beyond the morning lark, and howsoe'er 
Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop down 

upon him 
Eagle-like, lightning-like — strike, make 

his feathers 
Glance in mid heaven. 

\Crosses to chair. 

I would thou hadst a mate ! 

Thy breed will die with thee, and mine 

with me : 
I am as lone and loveless as thyself. 

\Sits in chair. 
Giovanna here ! Ay, ruffle thyself — be 

jealous ! 
Thou should'st be jealous of her. Tho' 

I bred thee 
The fuU-train'd marvel of all falconry. 
And love thee and thou me, yet if 

Giovanna 
Be here again — No, no ! Buss me, my 

bird! 



The stately widow has no heart for me. 
Thou art the last friend left me upon 

earth — 
No, no again to that. ^Rises and turiis. 
My good old nurse, 
I had forgotten thou wast sitting there, 
Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy 

foster-brother too. 
Count. Bird -babble for my falcon ! 
Let it pass. 
What art thou doing there ? 

Elisabetta. Darning, your lordship. 
We cannot flaunt it in new feathers 

now : 
Nay, if we will buy diamond necklaces 
To please our lady, we must darn, my 

lord. 
This old thing here (points to necklace 
round her neck), 
they are but blue beads — my Piero, 
God rest his honest soul, he bought 'em 

for me, 
Ay, but he knew I meant to marry him. 
How couldst thou do it, my son ? How 
couldst thou do it ? 
Count. She saw it at a dance, upon 
a neck 
Less lovely than her own, and long'd for 
it. 
Elisabetta. She told thee as much ? 
Count. No, no — a friend of hers. 

Elisabetta. Shame on her that she 
took it at thy hands, 
She rich enough to have bought it for 
herself ! 
Count. She would have robb'd me 

then of a great pleasure. 
Elisabetta. But hath she yet return'd 

thy love ? 
Cotinf. Not yet ! 



767 



768 



THE FALCON 



Elisabetta. She should return thy 

necklace then. 
Count. Ay, if 

She knew the giver ; but I bound the 

seller 
To silence, and I left it privily 
At Florence, in her palace. 

Elisabetta. And sold thine own 

To buy it for her. She not know ? She 
knows 

There's none such other 

Cotmt. Madman anywhere. 

Speak freely, tho' to call a madman 

mad 
Will hardly help to make him sane again. 

Enter Filippo 

Filippo. Ah, the women, the women ! 
Ah, Monna Giovanna, you here again ! 
you that have the face of an angel and 
the heart of a — that's too positive ! You 
that have a score of lovers and have not 
a heart for any of them — that's positive- 
negative : you that have 7iot the head of 
a toad, and not a heart like the jewel in 
it — that's too negative ; you that have a 
cheek like a peach and a heart like the 
stone in it — that's positive again — that's 
better ! 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! 

Filippo {turns half round). Here has 
our master been a-glorifying and a-velvet- 
ing and a-silking himself, and a-peacock- 
ing and a-spreading to catch her eye for 
a dozen year, till he hasn't an eye left in 
his own tail to flourish among the pea- 
hens, and all along o' you, Monna Gio- 
vanna, all along o' you ! 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! Can't 
you hear that you are saying behind his 
back what you see you are saying afore 
his face ? 

Count. Let him — he never spares 
me to my face ! 

Filippo. No, my lord, I never spare 
your lordship to your lordship's face, nor 
behind your lordship's back, nor to right, 
nor to left, nor to round about and back 
to your lordship's face again, for I'm 
honest, your lordship. 



Cojint. Come, come, Filippo, what 
is there in the larder ? 

[Elisabetta crosses to fireplace and 
puts on wood. 

Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves 
and hooks, and when I see the shelves I 
am like to hang myself on the hooks. 

Co7mt. No bread ? 

Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat ! 

Cotmt. Milk ? 

Filippo. Three laps for a cat ! 

Coimt. Cheese ? 

Filippo. A supper for twelve mites. 

Count. Eggs ? 

Filippo, One, but addled. 

Count. No' bird? 

Filippo. Half a tit and a hern's bill. 

Count. Let be thy jokes and thy 
jerks, man ! Anything or nothing ? 

Filippo. Well, my lord, if all-but- 
nothing be anything, and one plate of 
dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then 
there is anything in your lordship's larder 
at your lordship's service, if your lord- 
ship care to call for it. 

Count. Good mother, happy was the 
prodigal son, 
For he return'd to the rich father ; I 
But add my poverty to thine. And all 
Thro' following of my fancy. Pray thee 

make 
Thy slender meal out of those scraps and 

shreds 
Filippo spoke of. As for him and me, 
There sprouts a salad in the garden still. 
{To the Falcon.) Wliy didst thou miss 

thy quarry yester-even ? 
To-day, my beauty, thou must dash us 

down 
Our dinner from the skies. Away, 
Filippo ! 

{Exit, followed by Filippo. 

Elisabetta. I knew it would come to 
this. She has beggared him. I always 
knew it would come to this ! {Goes tip 
to table as if to resufne darning, and 
looks out of window.) Why, as I live, 
there is Monna Giovanna coming down 
the hill from the castle. Stops and 
stares at our cottage. Ay, ay ! stare at 



THE FALCON 



769 



it : it's all you have left us. Shame 
on you ! She beautiful : sleek as a 
miller's mouse ! Meal enough, meat 
enough, well fed ; but beautiful — bah ! 
Nay, see, why she turns down the path 
through our little vineyard, and I sneezed 
three times this morning. Coming to 
visit my lord, for the first time in her 
life too ! Wliy, bless the saints ! I'll 
be bound to confess her love to him at 
last. I forgive her, I forgive her ! I 
knew it would come to this — I always 
knew it must come to this ! ( Going tip 
to door during latter part of speech and 
opens it.) Come in, Madonna, coine in. 
{Retires to fro7it of table and curtseys as 
the Lady Giovanna enters^ then moves 
chair toivards the hearth.) Nay, let me 
place this chair for your ladyship. 

[Lady Giovanna moves slowly down 
stage, then crosses to chair, looking 
about her, bows as she sees the 
Madonna over fireplace, then sits 
in chair. 
Lady Giovanna. Can I speak with 
the Count ? 

Elisabetta. Ay, my lady, but won't 
you speak with the old woman first, and 
tell her all about it and make her happy ? 
for I've been on my knees every day for 
these half-dozen years in hope that the 
saints would send us this blessed morning ; 
and he always took you so kindly, he 
always took the world so kindly. When 
he was a little one, and I put the bitters 
on my breast to wean him, he made a 
wry mouth at it, but he took it so kindly, 
and your ladyship has given him bitters 
enough in this world, and he never made 
a wry mouth at you, he always took you 
so kindly — which is more than I did, 
my lady, more than I did — and he so 
handsome — and bless your sweet face, 
you look as beautiful this morning as the 
very Madonna her own self — and better 
late than never — but come when they 
will — then or now — it's all for the best, 
come when they will — they are made by 
the blessed saints — these marriages. 

{^Raises her hands. 



Lady Giovanna. Marriages ? I shall 

never marry again ! 
Elisabetta {rises and turns). Shame 

on her then ! 
Lady Giovattna. Where is the Counjt? 
Elisabetta. Just gone 

To fly his falcon. 

Lady Giovamta. Call him back and 

say 
I come to breakfast with him. 

Elisabetta. Holy mother ! 

To breakfast ! Oh sweet saints ! one 

plate of prunes ! 
Well, Madam, I will give your message 

to him. \^Exit. 

Lady Giovanna. His falcon, and I 

come to ask for his falcon. 
The pleasure of his eyes — boast of his 

hand — 
Pride of his heart — the solace of his 

hours — 
His one companion here — nay, I have 

heard 

That, thro' his late magnificence of living 

And this last costly gift to mine own self, 

\Shows diamond necklace. 

He hath become so beggar'd, that his 

falcon 
Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the field. 
That must be talk, not truth, but truth 

or talk. 
How can I ask for his falcon ? 

\_Rises and j?ioves as she speaks. 
O my sick boy ! 
My daily fading Florio, it is thou 
Hath set me this hard task, for when I 

say 
WTiat can I do — what can I get for 

thee ? 
He answers, * Get the Count to give me 

his falcon. 
And that will make me well.' Vet if I 

ask, 
He loves me, and he knows I know he 

loves me ! 
Will he not pray me to return his love — 
To marry him ? — [pause) — I can never 

marry him. 
His grandsire struck my grandsire in a 

brawl 

3D 



770 



THE FALCON 



At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd 

him there. 
The feud between our houses is the bar 
I cannot cross ; I dare not brave my 

brother, 
Break with my kin. My brother hates 

him, scorns 
The noblest-natured man alive, and I — 
Who have that reverence for him that I 

scarce 
Dare beg him to receive his diamonds 

back — 
How can I, dare I, ask him for his falcon? 
{Puts diamonds in her casket. 

Re-etiter Count and Filippo. Count 
turns to Filippo 
Count. Do what I said ; I cannot do 

it myself. 
Filippo. Why then, my lord, we are 

pauper'd out and out. 
Count. Do what I said ! 

{Advances and boxos lotv. 
Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear 
lady. 
Lady Giovanna. And welcome turns 

a cottage to a palace. 
Count. 'Tis long since we have met. 
Lady Giovafina. To make amends 

I come this day to break my fast with 
you. 
Count. I am much honour'd — yes — 
\T2irns to Filippo. 
Do what I told thee. Must I do it my- 
self? 
Filippo. I will, I will. {Sighs.) Poor 
fellow ! \Exit. 

Count. Lady, you bring your light 
into my cottage 
Who never deign'd to shine into my 

palace. 

My palace wanting you was but a cottage ; 

My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace. 

Lady Giovanna. In cottage or in 

palace, being still 

Beyond your fortunes, you are still the 

king 
Of courtesy and liberality. 

Count. I trust I still maintain my 
courtesy ; 



My liberality perforce is dead 
Thro' lack of means of giving. 

Lady Giovanna. Yet I come 

To ask a gift. 

{Moves toward him a little. 
Count. It will be hard, I fear. 

To find one shock upon the field when all 
The harvest has been carried. 

Lady Giovanjta. But my boy — 

[Aside.) No, no ! not yet — I cannot ! 

Count. Ay, how is he, 

That bright inheritor of your eyes — your 
boy ? 
Lady Giovanna. Alas, my Lord 
Federigo, he hath fallen 
Into a sickness, and it troubles me. 
Count. Sick ! is it so ? why, when 
he came last year 
To see me hawking, he was well enough : 
And then I taught him all our hawking- 
phrases. 
Lady Giovanna. Oh yes, and once 

you let him fly your falcon. 
Cotmt. How charm'd he was ! what 
wonder ? — A gallant boy, 
A noble bird, each perfect of the breed. 
Lady Giovaiina [sinks in chair). Wliat 

do you rate her at ? 
Count. My bird ? a hundred 

Gold pieces once were offer'd by the 

Duke. 
I had no heart to part with her for money. 
Lady Giovanna. No, not for money. 
[Count tui'iis azvay and sighs. 
Wherefore do you sigh ? 
Count. I have lost a friend of late. 
Lady Giovanna. I could sigh with 
you 
For fear of losing more than friend, a 

son ; 
And if he leave me — all the rest of life — 
That wither'd wreath were of more worth 
to me. 

{Looking at wreath on wall. 
Count. That wither'd wreath is of 
more worth to me 
Than all the blossom, all the leaf of this 
New- wakening year. 

{Goes and takes down wreath. 
Lady Giovanna. And yet I never saw 



THE FALCON 



771 



The land so rich in blossom as this 

year. 

Count {holding wreath toward her). 

Was not the year when this was 

gather'd richer ? 

Lady Giovanna. How long ago was 

that? 
Count, Alas, ten summers ! 

A lady that was beautiful as day 
Sat by me at a rustic festival 
With other beauties on a mountain 

meadow, 
And she was the most beautiful of all ; 
Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. 
The mountain flowers grew thickly round 

about. 
I made a wreath with some of these ; I 

ask'd 
A ribbon from her hair to bind it with ; 
I whisper'd, Let me crown you Queen of 

Beauty, 
And softly placed the chaplet on her 

head. . 
A colour, which has colour'd all my life, 
Flush'd in her face ; then I was call'd 

away ; 
And presently all rose, and so departed. 
Ah ! she had thrown my chaplet on the 

grass, 
And there I found it. 

{Lets his hands fall, holding wreath 
despondingly. 
Lady Giovatina (after pause). How 

long since do you say ? 
Count. That was the very year before 

you married. 
Lady Giovanna. When I was married 

you were at the wars. 
Count. Had she not thrown my 
chaplet on the grass, 
It may be I had never seen the wars. 
{Replaces wreath whence he had taken it. 
Lady Giovanna. Ah, but, my lord, 
there ran a rumour then 
That you were kill'd in battle. I can 

tell you 
True tears that year were shed for you 
in Florence. 
Count. It might have been as well 
for me. Unhappily 



I was but wounded by the enemy there 
And then imprison'd. 

Lady Giovanna. Happily, however, 
I see you quite recover'd of your wound. 

Count. No, no, not quite, Madonna, 
not yet, not yet. 

Re-enter FlLlPPO 
Filippo. My lord, a word with you. 
Count. Pray, pardon me ! 

[Lady Giovanna crosses^ and passes 
behind chair and takes down 
wreath; then goes to chair by 
table. 
Cotmt {to Filippo). Wliat is it, Fi- 
lippo ? 
Filippo. Spoons, your lordship. 

Count. Spoons ! 

Filippo. Yes, my lord, for wasn't my 
lady born with a golden spoon in her 
ladyship's mouth, and we haven't never 
so much as a silver one for the golden 
lips of her ladyship. 

Count. Have we not half a score of 
silver spoons ? 

Filippo. Half o' one, my lord ! 
Cotmt. How half of one ? 
Filippo. I trod upon him even now, 
my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. 
Count. And the other nine ? 
Filippo. Sold ! but shall I not mount 
with your lordship's leave to her lady- 
ship's castle, in your lordship's and her 
ladyship's name, and confer with her 
ladyship's seneschal, and so descend again 
with some of her ladyship's own appur- 
tenances ? 

Cotmt. Why — no, man. Only see 

your cloth be clean. {Exit Filippo. 

Lady Giovanna. Ay, ay, this faded 

ribbon was the mode 

In Florence ten years back. What's 

here ? a scroll 
Pinned to the wreath. 

My lord, you have said so much 
Of this poor wreath that I was bold 

enough 
To take it down, if but to guess what 

flowers 
Had made it ; and I find a written scroll 



772 



THE FALCON 



That seems to run in rhymings. Might 
I read ? 
Count, Ay, if you will. 
Lady Giovanna. It should be if you 
can. 

{Reads.) 'Dead mountain.' Nay, for 
who could trace a hand 

So wild and staggering ! 

Count. This was penn'd. Madonna, 

Close to the grating on a winter morn 

In the perpetual twilight of a prison. 

When he that made it, having his right 
hand 

Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his 
left. 
Lady Giovanna. O heavens ! the 
very letters seem to shake 

With cold, with pain perhaps, poor 
prisoner ! Well, 

Tell me the words — or better — for I see 

There goes a musical score along with 
them. 

Repeat them to their music. 

Count. You can touch 

No chord in me that would not answer you 

In music. 

Lady Giovanna. That is musically 
said. 
[Count takes gnitai-. Lady Gio- 
vanna sits listening with wt-eath 
in her hand, and quietly removes 
scroll and places it on table at the 
end of the song. 
Count {sings, playing guitar). ' Dead 
mountain flowers, dead mountain- 
meadow flowers, 

Dearer than when you made your moun- 
tain gay, 

Sweeter than any violet of to-day, 

Richer than all the wide world-wealth of 
May, 

To me, tho' all your bloom has died 
away. 

You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow 
flowers. ' 

Ejiter Elisabetta with cloth 

Elisabetta. A word with you, my 

lord! 
Count {sinking). * O mountain flowers ! ' 



Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! 

{Louder.) 
Count {sings). ' Dead flowers ! ' 

Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! 

{Louder.) 
Count. I pray you pardon me again ! 
[Lady Giovanna looking at wreath. 
Count {to Elisabetta). What is it ? 

Elisabetta. My lord, we have but 
one piece of earthenware to serve the 
salad in to my lady, and that cracked ! 
Count. Why then, that flower'd bowl 
my ancestor 
Fetch'd from the farthest east — we never 

use it 
For fear of breakage — but this day has 

brought 
A great occasion. You can take it, 
nurse ! 
Elisabetta. I did take it, my lord, 
but what with my lady's coming that 
had so flurried me, and what with the 
fear of breaking it, I did break it, my 
lord : it is broken ! 

Count. My one thing left of value in 
the world ! 
No matter 1 see your cloth be white as 
snow ! 
Elisabetta {pointing thro' window). 
White ? I warrant thee, my son, as the 
snow yonder on the very tip-top o' the 
mountain. 

Count. And yet to speak white truth, 
my good old mother, 
I have seen it like the snow on the 
moraine. 
Elisabetta. How can your lordship 
say so ? There my lord ! 

\^Lays cloth, 
O my dear son, be not unkind to me. 
And one word more. [^Going — returns. 
Count {touching guitar). Good ! let 

it be but one. 
Elisabetta. Hath she return'd thy love ? 
Count. Not yet ! 

Elisabetta. And will she ? 

Cotmt {looking at Lady Giovanna). I 

scarce believe it ! 
Elisabetta. Shame upon her then ! 

{Exit. 



THE FALCON 



773 



Count {sings). * Dead mountain 

flowers ' 

Ah well, my nurse has broken 
The thread of my dead flowers, as she 

has broken 
My china bowl. My memory is as dead. 
[ Goes and replaces giiitar. 
Strange that the words at home with me 

so long 
Should fly like bosom friends when needed 

most. 
So by your leave if you would hear the 

rest, 
The writing. 

Lady Giovanna {holding wreath toward 
him). There ! my lord, you are 
a poet. 
And can you not imagine that the wreath, 
Set, as you say, so lightly on her head. 
Fell with her motion as she rose, and she, 
A girl, a child, then but fifteen, however 
Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of 

her, 
Was yet too bashful to return for it ? 
Count. Was it so indeed ? was it so ? 

was it so ? 
\Leans foi'ward to take wreath, ajid 
touches Lady Giovanna's/i^w^, which 
she withdraws hastily ; he places 
wreath on corner of chair. 
Lady Giovanna {with dignity). I did 
not say, my lord, that it was so ; 
I said you might imagine it was so. 

Enter FiLlPPO with bowl of salad, which 
he places on table 

Filippo. Here's a fine salad for my 
lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, and 
ridden by his lordship's side, and seen the 
red of the battle-field, yet are we now 
drill-sergeant to his lordship's lettuces, 
and profess to be great in green things 
and in garden-stuff. 

Lady Giovanna. I thank thee, good 
Filippo. {Exit Filippo. 

Enter Elisabetta with bird on a dish 
which she places on table 

Elisabetta {close to table). Here's a 
fine fowl for my lady ; I had scant time to 



do him in. I hope he be not underdone, 
for we be undone in the doing of him. 
I^ady Giovanna. I thank you, my 

good nurse. 
Filippo {re-enteringzvith plate of prunes). 
And here are fine fruits for my lady — 
prunes, my lady, from the tree that my 
lord himself planted here in the blossom 
of his boyhood — and so I, Filippo, being, 
with your ladyship's pardon, and as your 
ladyship knows, his lordship's own foster- 
brother, would commend them to your 
ladyship's most peculiar appreciation. 

{Ptits plate on table. 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Lady Giovanna (Count leads her to 
tab It). Will you not eat with me, 
my lord ? 
Co7int. I cannot. 

Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have 

broken 
My fast already. I will pledge you. 

Wine ! 
Filippo, wine ! 

\Sifs near table ; Filippo brings flask, 

fills the Count's goblet, then Lady 

Giovanna's ; Elisabetta stands at the 

back of Lady Giovanna's chair. 

Count. It is but thin and cold, 

Not like the vintage blowing round your 

castle. 
We lie too deep down in the shadow 

here. 
Your ladyship lives higher in the sun. 

[ They pledge each other and drink. 

Lady Giovanna. If I might send you 

down a flask or two 

Of that same vintage ? There is iron in it. 

It has been much commended as a 

medicine. 
I give it my sick son, and if you be 
Not quite recover'd of your wound, the 

wine 
Might help you. None has ever told me 

yet 
The story of your battle and your wound. 
Filippo {coming foi'ward). I can tell 
you, my lady, I can tell you. 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! will you take the 
word out of your master's own mouth ? 



774 



THE FALCON 



Filippo. Was it there to take ? Put it 
there, my lord. 

Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, in 
this same battle 
We had been beaten — they were ten to 

one. 
The trumpets of the fight had echo'd 

down, 
I and Filippo here had done our best, 
And, having passed unwounded from the 

field, 
Were seated sadly at a fountain side, 
Our horses grazing by us, when a troop, 
Laden with booty and with a flag of ours 

Ta'en in the fight 

Filippo. Ay, but we fought for it back. 

And kiU'd 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. A troop of horse 

Filippo. Five hundred ! 

Count. Say fifty ! 

Filippo. And we kill'd 'em by the 

score ! 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo. Well, well, well ! 

I bite my tongue. 

Count. We may have left their fifty 

less by five. 

However, staying not to count how many. 

But anger'd at their flaunting of our flag. 

We mounted, and we dash'd into the 

heart of 'em. 
I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck ; 
It served me for a blessed rosary. 
I am sure that more than one brave 

fellow owed 
His death to the charm in it. 

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Count, I cannot tell how long we 

strove before 

Our horses fell beneath us ; down we went 

Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled underfoot. 

The night. 
As some cold-manner'd friend may 

strangely do us 
The truest service, had a touch of frost 
That help'd to check the flowing of the 

blood. 
My last sight ere I swoon'd was one 
sweet face 



Crown'd with the wreath. That seem'd 

to come and go. 
They left us there for dead ! 

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady! 

Filippo. Ay, and I left two fingers 
there for dead. See, my lady ! {Showing 
his hand. ) 

Lady Giovanna. I see, Filippo ! 
Filippo. And I have small hope of 
the gentleman gout in my great toe. 
Lady Giovanna. And why, Filippo ? 
\Smiling absently. 
Filippo. I left him there for dead too ! 
Elisabetta. She smiles at him — how 
hard the woman is ! 
My lady, if your ladyship were not 
Too proud to look upon the garland, you 

Would find it stain'd 

Count {rising). Silence, Elisabetta ! 
Elisabetta. Stain'd with the blood of 
the best heart that ever 
Beat for one woman. 

[Points to wreath on chair. 
Lady Giovanna {rising slowly). I can 

eat no more ! 
Count. You have but trifled with our 
homely salad. 
But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf; 
Not eaten anything. 

Lady Giovanna. Nay, nay, I cannot. 
You know, my lord, I told you I was 

troubled. 
My one child Florio lying still so sick, 
I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, 
That I would touch no flesh till he were 

well 
Here, or else well in Heaven, where all 
is well. 
[Elisabetta clears table of bird and 
salad : Filippo snatches up the plate 
of prunes and holds the?n to Lady 
Giovanna. 
Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, 

from the tree that his lordship 

Lady Giovanna. Not now, Filippo. 
My lord Federigo, 
Can I not speak with you once more 
alone ? 
Count. You hear, Filippo ? My good 
fellow, go ! 



THE FALCON 



in 



Filippo. But the prunes that your 

lordship 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. Ay, prune our company of 

thine own and go ! 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo {turning). Well, well ! the 
women ! \^Exit. 

Count. And thou too leave us, my 

dear nurse, alone. 
Elisabetta {folding jcp cloth and going). 
And me too ! Ay, the dear nurse will 
leave you alone ; but, for all that, she 
that has eaten the yolk is scarce like to 
swallow the shelL 

[Turns and curtseys stiffly to Lady 

Giovanna, then exit. Lady Gio- 

vanna takes out diamond necklace 

from casket. 

Lady Giovanna. I have anger'd your 

good nurse ; these old - world 

servants 

Are all but flesh and blood with those 

they serve. 
My lord, I have a present to return you. 
And afterwards a boon to crave of you. 
Count. No, my most honour'd and 
long-worshipt lady. 
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi 
Takes nothing in return from you except 
Return of his affection — can deny 
Nothing to you that you require of him. 
Lady Giovanna. Then I require you 
to take back your diamonds — 

\_Offering necklace. 
I doubt not they are yours. No other 

heart 
Of such magnificence in courtesy 
Beats — out of heaven. They seem'd too 

rich a prize 
To trust with any messenger. I came 
In person to return them. 

{Coicnt draws back. 
If the phrase 
' Return ' displease you, we will say — 
exchange them 

For your — for your 

Count {takes a step toward her and then 
back). For mine — and what of 
mine? 



Lady Giovanna. Well, shall we say this 

wreath and your sweet rhymes ? 
Count. But have you ever worn my 

diamonds ? 
Lady Giovanna. No ! 

For that would seem accepting of your 

love. 
I cannot brave my brother — but be sure 
That I shall never marry again, my lord ! 
Count. Sure ? 
Lady Giovanna. Yes ! 

Count. Is this your brother's order ? 
Lady Giovanna. No ! 

For he would marry me to the richest 

man 
In Florence ; but I think you know the 

saying — 
' Better a man without riches, than riches 
without a man.' 
Count. A noble saying — and acted 
on would yield 
A nobler breed of men and women. 

Lady, 
I find you a shrewd bargainer. The 

wreath 
That once you wore outvalues twenty- 
fold 
The diamonds that you never deign'd to 

wear. 
But lay them there for a moment ! 

[Points to table. Lady Giovanna 
places necklace on table. 

And be you 
Gracious enough to let me know the 

boon 
By granting which, if aught be mine to 

grant, 
I should be made more happy than I 

hoped 
Ever to be again. 

L^ady Giovanna. Then keep your 
wreath, 
But you will find me a shrewd bargainer 

still. 
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the 

gift 
I ask for, to my mind and at this present 
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. 
Count. It should be love that thus 
outvalues all. 



776 



THE FALCON 



You speak like love, and yet you love 

me not. 
I have nothing in this world but love for 

you. 
Lady Giovaima. Love? it is love, 

love for my dying boy, 
INIoves me to ask it of you. 

Count. What ? my time ? 

Is it my time ? Well, I can give my 

time 
To him that is a part of you, your son. 
Shall I return to the castle with you ? 

Shall I 
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my 

tales. 
Sing him my songs ? You know that I 

can touch 
The ghittern to some purpose. 

Lady Giovamia. No, not that ! 

I thank you heartily for that — and 

you, 
I doubt not from your nobleness of 

nature, 
Will pardon me for asking what I ask. 
Count. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I 

that once 
The wildest of the random youth of 

Florence 
Before I saw you — all my nobleness 
Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws 
From you, and from my constancy to 

you. 
No more, but speak. 

Lady Giovanna. I will. You know 

sick people. 
More specially sick children, have strange 

fancies. 
Strange longings ; and to thwart them 

in their mood 
May work them grievous harm at times, 

may even 
Hasten their end. I would you had a 

son ! 
It might be easier then for you to make 
Allowance for a mother — her — who 

comes 
To rob you of your one delight on earth. 
How often has my sick boy yearn'd for 

this ! 
I have put him off as often ; but to-day 



I dared not — so much weaker, so much 

worse 
For last day's journey. I was weeping 

for him ; 
He gave me his hand : * I should be well 

again 

If the good Count would give me ' 

Count. Give me. 

Lady Giovanna. His falcon. 

Coimt [stai'ts back). My falcon ! 
Lady Giovanna. Yes, your falcon, 

Federigo ! 
Count. Alas, I cannot ! 
Lady Giovanna. Cannot ? Even so ! 
I fear'd as much. O this unhappy 

world ! 
How shall I break it to him ? how shall 

I tell him ? 
The boy may die : more blessed were 

the rags 
Of some pale beggar-woman seeking 

alms 
For her sick son, if he were like to live, 
Than all my childless wealth, if mine 

must die. 
I was to blame — the love you said you 

bore me — 
My lord, we thank you for your entertain- 
ment. [ With a stately curtsey. 
And so return — Heaven help him ! — to 

our son. {Turns. 

Count {rushes forward). Stay, stay, 

I am most unlucky, most unhappy. 
You never had look'd in on me before. 
And when you came and dipt your ' 

sovereign head 
Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to eat 

with me, 
I had but emptiness to set before you, 
No not a draught of milk, no not an 

egg, 
Nothing but my brave bird, my noble 

falcon, 
My comrade of the house, and of the 

field. 
She had to die for it — she died for you. 
Perhaps I thought with those of old, the 

nobler 
The victim was, the more acceptable 
Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce 



i 



THE FALCON 



111 



Will thank me for your entertainment 
now. 
Lady Giovanna {returning). I bear 

with him no longer. 
Count. No, Madonna ! 

And he will have to bear with it as he 
may. 
Lady Giovanna. I break with him 

for ever ! 
Count. Yes, Giovanna, 

But he will keep his love to you for 
ever ! 
Lady Giovanna. You ? you ? not 
you ! My brother ! my hard 
brother ! 
O Federigo, Federigo, I love you ! 
Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo. 
{^Falls at his feet. 
Count {impetuojisly). Why then the 
dying of my noble bird 
Hath served me better than her living — 
then 

\Takes diamonds from table. 
These diamonds are both yours and mine 

— have won 
Their value again — beyond all markets 
— there 



I lay them for the first time round your 
neck. 

\I^ays necklace round her neck. 
And then this chaplet — No more feuds, 

but peace. 
Peace and conciliation ! I will make 
Your brother love me. See, I tear away 
The leaves were darken'd by the battle — 
\Pulls leaves off and throivs them down. 
— crown you 
Again with the same crown my Queen 
of Beauty. 

{^Places wreath on her head. 
Rise — I could almost think that the 

dead garland 
Will break once more into the living 

blossom. 
Nay, nay, I pray you rise. 

^Raises her with both hands. 

We two together 

Will help to heal your son — your son 

and mine — 
We shall do it — we shall do it. 

\Embraces her. 
The purpose of my being is accomplish'd, 
And I am happy ! 

Lady Giovanna. And I too, Federigo. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 

* A surface man of theories, true to none. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 
Farmer Dobson. 

Mr. Philip Edgar (afterwards Mr. Harold). 
Farmer Steer (Dora and Eva's Father). 
Mr. Wilson {a Schoolmaster). 

HiGGINS 

James 

Dan Smith \.Farm Labourers. 

Jackson 

Allen 

Dora Steer. 

Eva Steer. 

Sally Allen "j 

MiLLY } Farm Se?T>ants. 

Farm Servants, Labourers, etc. 



ACT I 

SCENE. — Before Farmhouse 

Fanning Men and Women. Farmmg 
Men carrying forms, etc., Wonien 
carrying baskets of knives and fo7'ks, 
etc. 

1st Farming Man. Be thou a-gawin' 
to the long barn ? 

2nd Farming Alan. Ay, to be sewer ! 
Be thou ? 

1st Farming Man. Why, o' coorse, 
fur it be the owd man's birthdaay. He 
be heighty this very daay, and 'e telled 
all on us to be i' the long barn by one 
o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and 
ha'afe th' parish '11 be theer, an' Miss 
Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all ! 

2nd Farming Man. Miss Dora be 
coomed back, then ? 

1st Farming Man. Ay, haafe an hour 
ago. She be in theer now. {Pointing 
to house.') Owd Steer wur afeard she 
wouldn't be back i' time to keep his 
birthdaay, and he wur in a tew about it 
all the murnin' ; and he sent me wi' the 
gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er ; and 'er 
an' the owd man they fell a kissin' o' one 



another like two sweet'arts i' the poorch 
as soon as he clapt eyes of 'er. 

2nd Farming Man. Foalks says he 
likes Miss Eva the best. 

1st Farming Man. Naay, I knaws 
nowt o' what foalks says, an' I caares 
nowt neither. Foalks doesn't hallus 
knaw thessens ; but sewer I be, they be 
two o' the purtiest gels ye can see of a 
summer murnin'. 

2nd Farming Man. Beant Miss Eva 
gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' laate ? 

\st Farming Man. Noa, not a bit. 

2nd Farming Man. Why coom 
awaay, then, to the long barn. 

{^Exeunt. 

Dora looks out ofivindow. Enter Dobson 

Dora [singing) 

The town lay still in the low sun-light, 
The hencluckt late by the white farm gate, 
The maid to her dairy came in from the 

cow. 
The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night. 
The blossom had open'd on every bough ; 
O joy for the promise of May, of May, 
O joy for the promise of May. 
{Nodding at Dobson.) I'm coming 
down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen Eva 
yet. Is she anywhere in the garden ? 



778 



ACT I 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



11<) 



Dobson. Noa, Miss. I ha'n't seed 
'er neither. 

Dora {enters singing) 

But a red fire woke in the heart of the town, 
And a fox from the glen ran away with 

the hen, 
And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the 

cheese ; 
And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt 

down, 
And a salt wind burnt the blossoming 
trees ; 

O grief for the promise of May, of May, 

O grief for the promise of May. 
I don't know why I sing that song ; I 
don't love it. 

Dobson. Blessings on your pretty 
voice, Miss Dora. Whcer did they larn 
ye that ? 

Dora. In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. 

Dobson. An' how did ye leave the 
owd uncle i' Coomberland ? 

Dora. Getting better, Mr. Dobson. 
But he'll never be the same man again. 

Dobson. An' how d'ye find the owd 
man 'ere? 

Dora. As well as ever. I came back 
to keep his birthday. 

Dobson. Well, I be coomed to keep 
his birthdaay an' all. The owd man be 
heighty to-daay, beant he ? 

Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the 
day's bright like a friend, but the wind 
east like an enemy. Help me to move 
this bench for him into the sun. {They 
viove bench.) No, not that way — here, 
under the apple tree. Thank you. 
Look how full of rosy blossom it is. 

[^Poititing to apple tree. 

Dobson. Theer be redder blossoms 
nor them. Miss Dora. 

Dora. Where do they blow, Mr. 
Dobson ? 

Dobson. Under your eyes, Miss Dora. 

Dora. Do they? 

Dobson. And your eyes be as blue 
as 

Dora. What, Mr. Dobson? A 
butcher's frock ? 



Dobson. Isioa, Miss Dora ; as blue 
as 

Dora. Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, 
bluebottle, succory, forget-me-not ? 

Dobson. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue 
as 

Dora. The sky ? or the sea on a blue 
day? 

Dobson. Naiiy then. I mean'd they 
be as blue as violets. 

Dora. Are they ? 

Dobson. Theer ye goas agean. Miss, 
niver believing owt I says to ye — hallus 
a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws I love ye. 
I warrants ye'U think moor o' this young 
Squire Edgar as ha' coomed among us — 
the Lord knaws how — ye'U think more 
on 'is little finger than hall my hand at 
the haltar. 

Dora. Perhaps, Master Dobson. I 
can't tell, for I have never seen him. But 
my sister wrote that he was mighty 
pleasant, and had no pride in him. 

Dobson. He'll be arter you now. Miss 
Dora. 

Dora. Will he ? How can I tell ? 

Dobson. He's been arter Miss Eva, 
haan't he ? 

Dora. Not that I know. 

Dobson. Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting i' 
the woodbine harbour togither ? 

Dora. What of that ? Eva told me 
that he was taking her likeness. He's 
an artist. 

Dobson. What's a hartist ? I doant 
believe he's iver a 'eart under his waist- 
coat. And I tells ye what, Miss Dora : 
he's no respect for the Queen, or the 
parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. 
I ha' heard 'im a-gawin' on 'ud make 
your 'air — God bless it ! — Stan' on end. 
And wuss nor that. When theer wur a 
meeting o' farmers at Littlechester t'other 
daay, and they was all a-crying out at the 
bad times, he cooms up, and he calls 
out among our oan men, ' The land 
belongs to the people ! ' 

Dora. And what did you say to that ? 

Dobson. Well, I says, s'pose my pig's 
the land, and you says it belongs to the 



78o 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



ACT I 



parish, and theer be a thousand i' the 
parish, taakin' in the women and childer ; 
and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it 
among 'em, why there wudn't be a 
dinner for nawbody, and I should ha' lost 
the pig. 

Z)o7'a. And what did he say to that ? 

Dobson. Nowt — what could he saay ? 
But I taakes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn 
fool, and I haates the very sight on him. 

Dora {looking at Dobson). Master 
Dobson, you are a comely man to look at. 

Dobson, I thank you for that. Miss 
Dora, onyhow. 

Dora. Ay, but you turn right ugly 
when you're in an ill temper ; and I 
promise you that if you forget yourself in 
your behaviour to this gentleman, my 
father's friend, I will never change word 
with you again. 

Enter Farming 'M\::i from barn 

Farming Man. Miss, the farming 
men 'uU hev their dinner i' the long 
barn, and the master 'ud be straange an' 
pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that 
all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he 
coom. \^Exit. 

Dora. I go. Master Dobson, did 
you hear what I said ? 

Dobson. Yeas, yeas ! I'll not meddle 
wi 'im if he doant meddle wi' mea. 
{Exit Dora.) Coomly, says she. I 
niver thowt o' mysen i' that waay ; but if 
she'd taake to ma i' that waay, or ony 
waay, I'd slaave out my life fur 'er. 
* Coomly to look at,' says she — but she 
said it spiteful-like. To look at — yeas, 
' coomly ' ; and she mayn't be so fur out 
theer. But if that be nowt to she, then 
it be nowt to me. {Looking off stage.) 
Schoolmaster ! Why if Steer han't 
haxed schoolmaster to dinner, thaw 'e 
knaws I was hallus agean heving school- 
master i' the parish ! fur him as be handy 
wi' a book bean't but haafe a hand at a 
pitchfork. 

Enter WiLSON 
Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow 



o' thine i' the pinfold agean as I wur a- 
coomin' 'ere. 

Wilson. Very likely, Mr. Dobson. 
She will break fence. I can't keep her 
in order. 

Dobson. An' if tha can't keep thy 
one cow i' border, how can tha keep all 
thy scholards i' border ? But let that 
goa by. Wbat dost a knaw o' this Mr. 
Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I 
coom'd upon 'im t'other daay lookin' at 
the coontry, then a-scrattin' upon a bit o' 
paaper, then a - lookin' agean ; and I 
taaked 'im fur soom sort of a land-sur- 
veyor — but a beant. 

Wilson. He's a Somersetshire man. 
and a very civil-spoken gentleman. 

Dobson. Gentleman ! \\'hat be h 
a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a 
raail ? We laays out o' the waay fur 
gentlefoalk altogither — leastwaays they 
niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our 
beck, fur they be knaw'd as far as 
Littlechester. But 'e doant fish neither. 

Wilson. W^ll, it's no sin in a gentle- 
man not to fish. 

Dobson. Noa, but I haates 'im. 

Wilson. Better step out of his road, 
then, for he's walking to us, and with a 
book in his hand. 

Dobson, An' I haates boooks an' all, 
fur they puts foalk off the owd waays. 

Enter Edgar, reading — not seeing 

Dobson aw^af Wilson 
Edgar. This author, with his charm 
of simple style 
And close dialectic, all but proving man 
An automatic series of sensations, 
Has often numb'd me into apathy 
Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough 

road 
That breaks off short into the abysses — 

made me 
A Quietist taking all things easily. 

Dobson. {Aside.) There mun be 
summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doant 
understan' it. 

Wilson. {Aside.) Nor I either, Mj. 
Dobson. 



ACT I 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



781 



Dobson {scornfully). An thou doant 
understan' it neither — and thou school- 
master an' all. 

Edgar. What can a man, then, live 
for but sensations, 
Pleasant ones ? men of old would under- 

Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones 
Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties 

waiting 
To clasp their lovers by the golden gates. 
For me, whose cheerless Houris after 

death 
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones — 

the while — 
If possible, here ! to crop the flower and 

pass. 
Dobson. Well, I never 'eard the likes 
o' that afoor. 

Wilson. {Aside.) But I have, Mr, 
Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 
' Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we 
die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never 
comes to church, I thought better of him. 
Edgar. ' What are we,' says the blind 

old man in Lear? 
* As flies to the Gods ; they kill us for 

their sport.' 
Dobson. {Aside.) Then the owd man 
i' Lear should be shaamed of hissen, bul^ 
noan o' the parishes goas by that naame 
'ereabouts. 

Edgar. The Gods ! but they, the 

shadows of ourselves, 
Have past for ever. It is Nature kills, 
And not for her sport either. She knows 

nothing. 
Man only knows, the worse for him ! for 

why 
Cannot he take his pastime like the flies ? 
And if my pleasure breed another's pain, 
Well — is not that the course of Nature 

too. 
From the dim dawn of Being — her main 

law 
Whereby she grows in beauty — that her 

flies 
Must massacre each other? this poor 

Nature ! 
Dobson. Natur ! Natur ! Well, it 



be i' my natur to knock 'im o' the 'ead 
now ; but I weant. 

Edgar. A Quietist taking all things 
easily — why — 
Have I been dipping into this again 
To steel myself against the leaving her ? 
{^Closes book, j^^/w^ Wilson. 
Good day ! 

Wilson. Gfjod day, sir. 

[Dobson looks hard at Edgar. 

Edgar {to Dobson). Have I the 
pleasure, friend, of knowing you ? 

Dobson. Dobson. 

Edgar. Good day, then, Dobson. 

yExit. 

Dobson. * Good daay tlien, Dobson ! ' 
Civil-spoken i'deed ! Why, Wilson, tha 
'eard 'im thysen — the feller couldn't find 
a Mister in his mouth fur me, as farms 
five hoonderd haacre. 

Wilson. You never find one for me, 
Mr. Dobson. 

Dobson. Noa, fur thou be nobbut 
schoolmaster ; but I taakes 'im for a 
Lunnun swindler, and a burn forj). 

Wilson. He can hardly be both, and 
he pays me regular every Saturday. 

Dobson. Yeas ; but I haates 'im. 

Enter S'[ i:ek, Farm Men and Women 
Steer {goes and sits under apple tree). 
Hev* ony o' ye seen Eva ? 
Dobson. Noa, Mr. Steer. 
Steer. Well, I reckons they'll hev' a 
fine cider -crop to -year if the blossom 
'owds. Good murnin', neighbf)urs, and 
the saame to you, my men. I taakes it 
kindly of all o' you that you be coomed 
— what's the newspaaper word, Wilson ? 
— celebrate — to celebrate my birthdaay 
i' this fashion. Niver man 'ed better 
friends, and I will saay niver master 'ed 
better men : fur thaw I may ha' fallen out 
wi' ye sometimes, the fault, mcbbe, wur 
as much mine as yours ; anrl, thaw I says 
it mysen, niver men 'ed a better master — 
and I knaws what men be, and what 
masters be, fur I wur nobbut a laabourer, 
and now I be a landlord — burn a plow- 
man, and now, as far as moneygoas, I be a 



782 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



ACT I 



gentleman, thaw I beiint naw scholard, 
fur I 'ednt naw time to maake mysen a 
scholard while I wur maakin' mysen a 
gentleman, but I ha taaen good care to 
turn out boath my darters right down 
fine laadies. 

Dobson. An' soa they be. 

\st Farming Man. Soa they be ! soa 
they be ! 

Q-nd Farming Man, The Lord bless 
boath on 'em ! 

Tyrd Farfning Man. An' the saame 
to you, Master, 

^th Farming Man. And long life to 
boath on 'em. An' the saame to you, 
Master Steer, likewise. 

Steer. Thank ye ! 

Enter EvA 

Wheer 'asta been ? 

Eva {timidly). Many happy returns 
of the day, father. 

Steer. They can't be many, my dear, 
but I 'oapes they'll be 'appy. 

Dobson. Why, tha looks haale anew 
to last to a hoonderd. 

Steer. An' why shouldn't I last to a 
hoonderd ? Haale ! why shouldn't I be 
haale ? fur thaw I be heighty this very 
daay, I niver 'es sa much as one pin's 
prick of paain ; an' I can taake my glass 
along wi' the youngest, fur I niver 
touched a drop of owt till my oan wed- 
ding-daay, an' then I wur turned huppads 
o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haale ? I 
ha' plowed the ten-aacre — it be mine 
now — afoor ony o' ye wur burn — ye all 
knaws the ten-aacre — I niun ha' plowed 
it moor nor a hoonderd times ; hallus 
hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow 
straaight as a line right i' the faace o' the 
sun, then back agean, a-foUering my oan 
shadder — then hup agean i' the faace o' 
the sun. Eh ! how the sun 'ud shine, 
and the larks 'ud sing i' them daays, and 
the smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh ! if I 
could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nobbut 
the smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' maade ma 
live as long as Jerusalem. 

Eva. Methusaleh, father. 



Steer. Ay, lass, but when thou be as 
owd as me thou'll put one word fur 
another as I does. 

Dobson. But, Steer, thaw thou be 
haale anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just 
now wi' the roomatics i' the knee. 

Steer. Roomatics ! Noii ; I laame't 
my knee last night running arter a thief. 
Beant there house-breakers down i' 
Littlechester, Dobson — doant ye hear of 
ony ? 

Dobson. Ay, that there be. Im- 
manuel Goldsmiths was broke into o' 
Monday night, and ower a hoonderd 
pounds worth o' rings stolen. 

Steer. So I thowt, and I heard the 
winder — that's the winder at the end o' 
the passage, that goas by thy chaumber. 
{Turning to Eva.) Why, lass, what 
maakes tha sa red ? Did 'e git into thy 
chaumber ? 

Eva. Father ! 

Steer. Well, I runned arter thief i' 
the dark, and fell agean coalscuttle and 
my kneea gev waay or I'd ha' cotched 
'im, but afoor I coomed up he got thruff 
the winder agean. 

Eva. Got thro' the window again ? 

Steer. Ay, but he left the mark of 'is 
fcfoot i' the flower-bed ; now theer be noan 
o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' 
done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur I 
cotched 'im once a-stealin' coals, an' I 
sent fur 'im, an' I measured his foot wi' 
the mark i' the bed, but it wouldn't fit 
— seeams to me the mark wur maade by 
a Eunnun boot. {Looks at Eva. ) Why, 
now, what maakes tha sa white ? 

Eva. Fright, father ! 

Steer. Maake thysen easy. I'll hev 
the winder naailed up, and put Towser 
under it. 

Eva {clasping her hands). No, no, 
father ! Towser'll tear him all to pieces. 

Steer. Let him keep awaay, then ; 
but coom, coom ! let's be gawin. They 
ha' broached a barrel of a'ale i' the long 
barn, and the fiddler be theer, and the 
lads and lasses 'ull hev a dance. 

Eva. {Aside.) Dance ! small heart 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



783 



have I to dance. I should seem to be 
dancing upon a grave. 

Steer. Wheer be Mr. Edgar ? about 
the premises ? 

Dobson. Hallus about the premises ! 

Steer. So much the better, so much 
the better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes 
'im. Eva can do owt wi' 'im ; look for 
'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the barn. 
He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 
'im to speechify for us arter dinner. 

Eva. Yes, father ! \_Exit. 

Steer. Coom along then, all the rest 
o' ye ! Churchwarden be a coomin, thaw 
me and 'im we niver 'grees about the 
tithe ; and Parson mebbe, thaw he niver 
mended that gap i' the glebe fence as I 
telled 'im ; and Blacksmith, thaw he niver 
shoes a herse to my likings ; and Baaker, 
thaw I sticks to hoam-maade — but all on 
'em welcome, all on 'em welcome ; and 
I've hed the long barn cleared out of all 
the machines, and the sacks, and the 
taaters, and the mangles, and theer'U be 
room anew for all o' ye. Foller me. 

All. Yeas, yeas ! Three cheers for 
Mr. Steer ! 

S^All exetmt except Dobson into barn. 

Enter Edgar 

Dobson (who is going, turns). Squire ! 
— if so be you be a squire. 

Edgar. Dobbins, I think. 

Dobson, Dobbins, you thinks ; and I 
thinks ye wears a Lunnun boot. 

Edgar. Well ? 

Dobson. And I thinks I'd like to 
taake the measure o' your foot. 

Edgar. Ay, if you'd like to measure 
your own length upon the grass. 

Dobson. Coom, coom, that's a good 
un. Why, I could throw four o' ye ; 
but I promised one of the Misses I 
wouldn't meddle wi' ye, and I weant. 

]^Exit into baj-n. 

Edgar. Jealous of me with Eva ! 
Is it so ? 
Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I 
Have worn, to such a clod, yet that 
might be 



The best way out of it, if the child could 

keep 
Her counsel. I am sure I wish her 

happy. 
But I must free myself from this entangle- 
ment. 
I have all my life before me — so has 

she — 
Give her a month or two, and her affec- 
tions 
Will flower toward the light in some new 

face. 
Still I am half-afraid to meet her now. 
She will urge marriage on me. I hate 

tears. 
Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate 
Traditions, ever since my narrow father, 
After my frolic with his tenant's girl, 
Made younger elder son, violated the 

whole 
Tradition of our land, and left his heir, 
Born, happily, with some sense of art, to 

live 
By brush and pencil. By and by, when 

Thought 
Comes down among the crowd, and man 

perceives that 
The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves 

him 
A beast of prey in the dark, why then 

the crowd 
May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. 

Marriage ! 
That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, 

old Harold, 
Who leaves me all his land at Little- 

chester. 
He, too, would oust me from his will, 

if I 
Made such a marriage. And marriage 

in itself — 
The storm is hard at hand will sweep 

away 
Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, 

customs, marriage 
One of the feeblest ! Then the man, the 

woman, 
Following their best affinities, will each 
Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, 

not tears ; 



784 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



ACT I 



Good wishes, not reproaches ; with no 

fear 
Of the world's gossiping clamour, and 

no need 
Of veiling their desires. 

Conventionalism, 
Who shrieks by day at what she does by 

night, 
Would call this vice ; but one time's vice 

may be 
The virtue of another ; and Vice and 

Virtue 
Are but two masks of self; and what 

hereafter 
Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the 

gulf 
Of never-dawning darkness ? 

Enter EvA 

My sweet Eva, 
Where have you lain in ambush all the 

morning ? 
They say your sister, Dora, has return'd, 
And that should make you happy, if you 

love her ! 
But you look troubled. 

Eva. Oh, I love her so, 

I was afraid of her, and I hid myself. 
We never kept a secret from each other ; 
She would have seen at once into my 

trouble. 
And ask'd me what I could not answer. 

Oh, Philip, 
Father heard you last night. Our savage 

mastiff, 
That all but kill'd the beggar, will be 

placed 
Beneath the window, Philip. 

Edgar. Savage, is he ? 

What matters ? Come, give me your 

hand and kiss me 
This beautiful May-morning. 

Eva. The most beautiful 

May we have had for many years ! 

Edgar. And here 

Is the most beautiful morning of this 

May. 
Nay, you must smile upon me ! There 

— you make 
The May and morning still more beautiful, 



You, the most beautiful blossom of the 
May. 
Eva. Dear Philip, all the world is 
beautiful 
If we were happy, and could chime in 
with it. 
Edgar. True ; for the senses, love, 
are for the world ; 
That for the senses. 
Eva. Yes. 

Edgar. And when the man, 

The child of evolution, flings aside 
His swaddling-bands, the morals of the 

tribe, 
He, following his own instincts as his 

God, 
Will enter on the larger golden age ; 
No pleasure then taboo'd : for when the 

tide 
Of full democracy has overwhelm'd 
This Old world, from that flood will rise 

the New, 
Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal 

veil. 
Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked 

Nature 
In all her loveliness. 

Eva. What are you saying ? 

Edgar. That, if we did not strain to 
make ourselves 
Better and higher than Nature, we might 

be 
As happy as the bees there at their honey 
In these sweet blossoms. 

Eva. Yes ; how sweet they smell ! 
Edgar. There ! let me break some 
off for you. 

{^Breaking branch off. 

Eva. My thanks. 

But, look, how wasteful of the blossom 

you are ! 
One, two, three, four, five, six — you have 

robb'd poor father 
Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell 

you 
He wishes you to dine along with us, 
And speak for him after — you that are 
so clever ! 
Edgar. I grieve I cannot ; but, in- 
deed 



ACT I 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



785 



Eva. What is it ? 

Edgar. Well, business. I must leave 

you, love, to-day. 
Eva. Leave me, to-day ! And when 

will you return ? 
Edgar. I cannot tell precisely ; 

but 

Eva. But what ? 

Edgar. I trust, my dear, we shall be 

always friends. 
Eva. After all that has gone between 
us — friends ! 
What, only friends ? \props branch. 

Edgar. All that has gone between 
us 
Should surely make us friends. 

Eva. But keep us lovers. 

Edgar. Child, do you love me now ? 

Eva. Yes, now and ever. 

Edgar. Then you should wish us 

both to love for ever. 

But, if you wz7/bind love to one for ever, 

Altho' at first he take his bonds for 

flowers, 
As years go on, he feels them press upon 

him. 
Begins to flutter in them, and at last 
Breaks thro' them, and so flies away for 

ever ; 
While, had you left him free use of his 

wings, 
Who knows that he had ever dream'd of 
flying ? 
Eva. But all that sounds so wicked 
and so strange ; 
' Till death us part ' — those are the only 

words, 
The true ones — nay, and those not true 

enough, 
For they that love do not believe that 

death 
Will part them. Why do you jest with 

me, and try 
To fright me ? Tho' you are a gentle- 
man, 

I but a farmer's daughter 

Edgar. Tut ! you talk 

Old feudalism. When the great Demo- 
cracy 
Makes a new world 



Eva. And if you be not jesting, 

Neither the old world, nor the new, nor 

father. 
Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more. 
Edgar {moved). Then — {aside) Shall 
I say it ? — {alo2id) fly with me to- 
day. 
Eva. No ! Philip, Philip, if you do 
not marry me, 
I shall go mad for utter shame and die. 
Edgar. Then, if we needs must be 
conventional. 
When shall your parish-parson bawl our 

banns 
Before your gaping clowns ? 

Eva. Not in our church — 

I think I scarce could hold my head up 

there. 
Is there no other way? 

Edgar. Yes, if you cared 

To fee an over-opulent superstition. 
Then they would grant you what they 

call a licence 
To marry. Do you wish it ? 

Eva. Do I wish it ? 

Edgar. In London. 
Eva. You will write to me ? 

Edgar. I will. 

Eva. And I will fly to you thro' the 
night, the storm — 
Yes, tho' the fire should run along the 

ground. 
As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see, 
I was just out of school, I had no 

mother — 
My sister far away — and you, a gentle- 
man, 
Told me to trust you : yes, in every- 
thing — 
That was the only trite love ; and I 

trusted — 
Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for 

you. 
How could you — Oh, how could you ? — 

nay, how could I ? 
But now you will set all right again, 

and I 
Shall not be made the laughter of the 

village, 
And poor old father not die miserable. 

3E 



786 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



ACT II 



Dora [sijigijig in the distance). 

O joy for the promise of May, of 

May, 
O joy for the promise of May. 
Edgar. Speak not so loudly ; that 
must be your sister. 
You never told her, then, of what has 

past 
Between us. 

Eva. Never ! 

Edgar. Do not till I bid you. 

Eva. No, Philip, no. \Turns away. 

Edgar {moved). How gracefully there 

she stands 

Weeping — the little Niobe ! What ! we 

prize 
The statue or the picture all the more 



Wlien we have made them 



Is she 



less loveable. 
Less lovely, being wholly mine ? To 

stay — 
Follow my art among these quiet fields, 

Live with these honest folk 

And play the fool ! 
No ! she that gave herself to me so easily 
Will yield herself as easily to another. 
Eva. Did you speak, Philip ? 
Edgar. Nothing more, farewell. 

\They embrace. 
Dora {coming nearer). 

O grief for the promise of May, of 

May, 
O grief for the promise of May. 
Edgar {still embj-acing her). Keep up 

your heart until we meet again. 
Eva. If that should break before we 

meet again ? 
Edgar. Break ! nay, but call for 
Philip when you will, 
And he returns. 

Eva. Heaven hears you, Philip 

Edgar ! 
Edgar {moved). And he would hear 
you even from the grave. 
Heaven curse him if he come not at your 
call ! {^Exit. 

Enter DORA 

Dora. Well, Eva ! 

Eva. Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you 



have been away from home ! Oh, how 
often I have wished for you ! It seemed 
to me that we were parted for ever. 

Dora. For ever, you foolish child ! 
What's come over you ? We parted like 
the brook yonder about the alder island, 
to come together again in a moment and 
to go on together again, till one of us be 
married. But where is this Mr. Edgar 
whom you praised so in your first letters ? 
You haven't even mentioned him in your 
last? 

Eva. Pie has gone to London. 

Dora. Ay, child ; and you look thin 
and pale. Is it for his absence ? Have 
you fancied yourself in love with him ? 
That's all nonsense, you know, such a 
baby as you are. But you shall tell me 
all about it. 

Eva. Not now — presently. Yes, I 
have been in trouble, but I am happy — I 
think, quite happy now. 

Dora {taking Eva's hand). Come, 
then, and make them happy in the long 
barn, for father is in his glory, and there 
is a piece of beef like a house-side, and a 
plum-pudding as big as the round hay- 
stack. But see they are coming out for 
the dance already. Well, my child, let 
us join them. 

Enter all from barn laughing. Eva sits 
reluctantly tinder apple tree. Steer 
enters smoking, sits by EvA. 

Dance. 

ACT II 

Five years have elapsed betzveen Acts 
I. and II. 

SCENE. — A Meadow. On one side 
A Pathway going over a rustic 
Bridge. At back the Farmhouse 

AMONG trees. IN THE DISTANCE A 

Church Spire 

DoBSON and DORA 

Dobson. So the owd uncle i' Coomber- 
land be dead, Miss Dora, beant he ? 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



1^1 



Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been 
attending on his deathbed and his burial. 

Dobson. It be five year sin' ye went 
afoor to him, and it seems to me nobbut 
t'other day. Hesn't he left ye nowt ? 

Do7-a. No, Mr. Dobson. 

Dobson. But he were mighty fond o' 
ye, warn't he ? 

Dora. Fonder of poor Eva — like 
everybody else. 

Dobson {handing DoxQ. basket of roses). 
Not like me. Miss Dora ; and I ha' 
browt these roses to ye — I forgits what 
they calls 'em, but I hallus gi'ed soom 
on 'em to Miss Eva at this time o' year. 
Will ya taake 'em ? fur Miss Eva, she 
set the bush by my dairy winder afoor 
she went to school at Littlechester — so I 
alius browt soom on 'em to her ; and now 
she be gone, will ye taake 'em, Miss Dora? 

Dora. I thank you. They tell me 
that yesterday you mentioned her name 
too suddenly before my father. See that 
you do not do so again ! 

Dobson. Noa ; I knaws a deal better 
now. I seed how the owd man wur 
vext. 

Dora. I take them, then, for Eva's 
sake. 

[ Takes basket^ places some in her dress. 

Dobson. Eva's saake. Yeas. Poor 
gel, poor gel ! I can't abear to think on 
'er now, fur I'd ha' done owt fur 'er my- 
sen ; an' ony o' Steer's men, an' ony o' 
my men 'ud ha' done owt fur 'er, an' all 
the parish 'ud ha' done owt fur 'er, fur 
we was all on us proud on 'er, an' them 
theer be soom of her oan roses, an' she 
wur as sweet as ony on 'em — the Lord 
bless 'er — 'er oan sen ; an' weant ye 
taake 'em now. Miss Dora, fur 'er saake 
an' fur my saake an' all ? 

Dora. Do you want them back again ? 

Dobson. Noa, noa ! Keep 'em. But 
I hed a word to saay to ye. 

Dora. Why, Farmer, you should be 
in the hayfield looking after your men ; 
you couldn't have more splendid weather. 

Dobson. I be a going theer ; but I 
thowt I'd bring tha them roses fust. The 



weather's well anew, but the glass be a 
bit shaaky. S'iver we've led moiist on it. 

Dora. Ay ! but you must not be too 
sudden with it either, as you were last 
year, when you put it in green, and your 
stack caught fire. 

Dobson. I were insured. Miss, an' I 
lost nowt by it. But I weant be too 
sudden wi' it ; and I feel sewer. Miss 
Dora, that I ha' been noan too sudden 
wi' you, fur I ha' sarved for ye well nigh 
as long as the man sarved for 'is sweet'art 
i' Scriptur'. Weant ye gi'e me a kind 
answer at last ? 

Dora. I have no thought of marriage, 
my friend. We have been in such grief 
these five years, not only on my sister's 
account, but the ill success of the farm, 
and the debts, and my father's breaking 
down, and his blindness. How could I 
think of leaving him ? 

Dobson. Eh, but I be well to do ; 
and if ye would nobbut hev me, 1 would 
taake the owd blind man to my oan fire- 
side. You should hev him alius wi' ye. 

Dora. You are generous, but it cannot 
be. I cannot love you ; nay, I think I 
never can be brought to love any man. 
It seems to me that I hate men, ever 
since my sister left us. Oh, see here. 
{Pulls out a letter. ) I wear it next my 
heart. Poor sister, I had it five years 
ago. ' Dearest Dora, — I have lost my- 
self, and am lost for ever to you and my 
poor father. I thought Mr, Edgar the 
best of men, and he has proved himself 
the worst. Seek not for me, or you may 
find me at the bottom of the river, — EvA.' 

Dobson. Be that my fault ? 

Dora. No ; but how should I, with 
this grief still at my heart, take to the 
milking of your cows, the fatting of your 
calves, the making of your butter, and 
the managing of your poultry ? 

Dobson. Naay, but I hev an owd 
woman as 'ud see to all that ; and you 
should sit i' your oan parlour quite like a 
laady, ye should ! 

Dora. It cannot be. 

Dobson. And plaay the pianner, if ye 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



ACT II 



liked, all daay long, like a laady, ye 
should an' all. 

Dora. It cannot be. 

Dobson. And I would loove tha moor 
nor ony gentleman 'ud loove tha. 

Dora, No, no ; it cannot be. 

Dobson. And p'raps ye hears 'at I 
soomtimes taakes a drop too much ; but 
that be all along o' you, Miss, because 
ye weant hev me ; but, if ye would, I 
could put all that o' one side easy anew. 

Dora. Cannot you understand plain 
words, Mr. Dobson ? I tell you, it can- 
not be. 

Dobson. Eh, lass ! Thy feyther eddi- 
cated his darters to marry gentlefoalk, 
and see what's coomed on it. 

Dora. That is enough, Farmer Dob- 
son. Vou have shown me that, though 
fortune had born you into the estate of a 
gentleman, you would still have been 
Farmer Dobson. You had better attend 
to your hayfield. Good afternoon. 

lExit. 

Dobson. ' Farmer Dobson ! ' Well, 
I be Farmer Dobson ; but I thinks 
Farmer Dobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd 
better nor to cast her sister's misfortin 
inter 'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' 
me the letter wi' 'er voice a-shaakin', and 
the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goas ! 
Shall I foller 'er and ax 'er to maake it 
up ? Noa, not yet. Let 'er cool upon 
it ; I likes 'er all the better fur taakin' 
me down, like a laady, as she be. 
Farmer Dobson ! I be Farmer Dobson, 
sewer anew ; but if iver I cooms upo' 
Gentleman Hedgar agean, and doant 
laay my cartwhip athurt 'is shou'ders, 
why then I beant Farmer Dobson, but 
summun else — blaame't if I beant ! 

Enter Haymakers with a load of hay 
The last on it, eh ? 
\st Haymaker. Yeas. 
Dobson. Hoam wi' it, then. 

[Exit surlily. 
1st Haymaker. Well, it be the last 
load hoam. 

2nd Haymaker. Yeas, an' owd Dobson 



should be glad on it. What maakes 
'im alius sa glum ? 

Sally Allen. Glum ! he be wuss nov 
glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaay 
i' the haayfield, when mea and my 
sweet'art was a workin' along o' one 
side wi' one another, and he sent 'im 
awaay to t'other end o' the field ; and 
when I axed 'im why, he telled me 'at 
sweet'arts niver worked well togither ; 
and I telled Hni 'at sweet'arts alius 
worked best togither ; and then he called 
me a rude naame, and I can't abide 'im. 

James. Why, lass, doant tha knaw he 
be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weant 
sa much as look at 'im ? And wheniver 
'e sees two sweet'arts togither like thou 
and me, Sally, he be fit to bust hissen 
wi' spites and jalousies. 

Sally. Let 'im bust hissen, then, for 
owt / cares. 

ist Haymakei-. Well but, as I said 
afoor, it be the last load hoam ; do thou 
and thy sweet'art sing us hoam to supper 
— ' The Last Load Hoam.' 

All. Ay ! ' The Last Load Hoam. ' 

Song 

What did ye do, and what did ye saay, 
Wi' the wild white rose, an' the wood- 
bine sa gaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky 

sa blue — 
What did ye saay, and what did ye do. 
When ye thowt there were nawbody 

watchin' o' you. 
And you an' your Sally was forkin' the 
ha'ay. 
At the end of the daay. 
For the last load hoam ? 

What did we do, and what did we saay, 
Wi' the briar sa green, an' the wilier sa 

graay, ^ 

An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky , 

sa blue — ^ 

Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you, ! 
What we mo wt saay, and what we m owt do, ' 
When me an' my Sally was forkin' the 

haay. 



ACT II 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



789 



At the end of the daay, 
For the last load hoam ? 

But what did ye saay, and what did ye 

do, 
Wi' the butterflies out, and the swallers 

at plaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky 

sa blue ? 
Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to 

you; 
For me an' my Sally we swe'ar'd to be 

true, 
To be true to each other, let 'appen what 

maay. 
Till the end of the daay 
And the last load hoam. 

All. Well sung ! 

James. Fanny be the naame i' the 
song, but I swopt it fur she. 

\Pointing to Sally. 
Sally, Let ma aloan afoor foalk, wilt 
tha? 

\st Haymaker. Ye shall sing that 
agean to-night, fur owd Dobson '11 gi'e us 
a bit o' supper. 

Sally. I weant goa to owd Dobson ; 
he wur rude to me i' tha haayfield, and 
he'll be rude to me agean to-night. Owd 
Steer's gotten all his grass down and 
wants a hand, and I'll goa to him. 

1st Haymaker. Owd Steer gi'es 
nubbut cowd tea to Hs men, and owd 
Dobson gi'es beer. 

Sally. But I'd like owd Steer's cowd 
tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye. 

{Going. 
James. Gi'e us a buss fust, lass. 
Sally. I tell'd tha to let ma aloan ! 
James. Why, wasn't thou and me 
a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' 
the haaycock, when owd Dobson coom'd 
upo' us? I can't let tha aloan if I 
would, Sally. {Offering to kiss her. 

Sally. Git along wi' ye, do ! {Exit. 
{All laugh ; exezmt singing. 
*To be true to each other, let 'appen 
what maay. 
Till the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam.' 



E^iter Harold 

Harold. Not Harold ! « Philip Edgar, 

Philip Edgar ! ' 
Her phantom call'd me by the name she 

loved. 
I told her I should hear her from the 

grave. 
Ay ! yonder is her casement. I re- 
member 
Her bright face beaming starlike down 

upon me 
Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since 

I left her 
Here weeping, I have ranged the world, 

and sat 
Thro' every sensual course of that full 

feast 
That leaves but emptiness. 

Song 

' To be true to each other, let 'appen 
what maay, 
To the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam.' 

Harold. Poor Eva ! O my God, if 

man be only 
A willy-nilly current of sensations — 
Reaction needs must follow revel — yet — 
Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he 

jmcst have 
Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny? 
Remorse then is a part of Destiny, 
Nature a liar, making us feel guilty 
Of her own faults. 

My grandfather — of him 
They say, that women — 

O this mortal house. 
Which we are born into, is haunted by 
The ghosts of the dead passions of dead 

men ; 
And these take flesh again with our own 

flesh, 
And bring us to confusion. 

He was only 
A. poor philosopher who call'd the mind 
Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa. 
There, there, is written in invisible inks 
' Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft, 



790 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



ACT 11 



Cowardice, Murder ' — and the heat and 

fire 
Of life will bring them out, and black 

enough, 
So the child grow to manhood : better 

death 
With our first wail than life — 

Song {further off) 

' Till the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam, 
Load hoam.' 

This bridge again ! {Steps o?i the bridge. ) 

How often have I stood 

With Eva here ! The brook among its 

flowers ! 
Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow- 
herb. 
I had some smattering of science then, 
Taught her the learned names, anatomized 
The flowers for her — and now I only wish 
This pool were deep enough, that I 

might plunge 
And lose myself for ever. 

Enter Dan Smith {singing) 

Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoii ! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa 
Thruf slush an' squad 
When roads was bad, 
But hallus 'ud stop at the Vine-an'-the- 
Hop, 
Fur boath on 'em knawed as well as 

mysen 
That beer be as good fur 'erses as 
men. 
Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoa ! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to 
goa. 

The beer's gotten oop into my 'ead. 
S'iver I mun git along back to the farm, 
fur she tell'd ma to taake the cart to 
Littlechester. 

Enter DoRA 

Half an hour late ! why are you loiter- 
ing here ? Away with you at once. 

\^Exit Dan Smith. 



{Seeing Harold on bridge) 

Some madman, is it, 
Gesticulating there upon the bridge ? 
I am half afraid to pass. 

Harold. Sometimes I wonder, 

When man has surely learnt at last that 

all 
His old-world faith, the blossom of his 

youth. 
Has faded, falling fruitless — whether then 
All of us, all at once, may not be seized 
With some fierce passion, not so much 

for Death 
As against Life ! all, all, into the dark — 
No more ! — and science now could drug 

and balm us 
Back into nescience with as little pain 
As it is to fall asleep. 

This beggarly life, 
This poor, flat, hedged-in field — no dis- 
tance — this 
Hollow Pandora-box, 
With all the pleasures flown, not even 

Hope 
Left at the bottom ! 

Superstitious fool. 
What brought me here ? To see her 

grave ? her ghost ? 
Her ghost is everyway about me here. 
Dora {coining forward). Allow me, 

sir, to pass you. 
Harold. Eva ! 

Dora, Eva ! 

Harold. What are you ? Where do 

you come from ? 
Dora. From the farm 

Here, close at hand. 

Harold. Are you — you are — that 

Dora, 
The sister. I have heard of you. The 

likeness 
Is very striking. 

Dora. You knew Eva, then ? 

Harold. Yes — I was thinking of her 
when — O yes. 
Many years back, and never since have 

met 
Her equal for pure innocence of nature, 
And loveliness of feature. 

Dora. No, nor I. 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



79] 



Harold. Except, indeed, I have found 
it once again 
In your own self. 

Dora. You flatter me. Dear Eva 

Was always thought the prettier. 

Harold. And her charm 

Of voice is also yours ; and I was brood- 
ing 
Upon a great unliappiness when you 
spoke. 
Dora. Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, 

sir. 
Harold. And you 

Seem my good angel who may help me 
from it. 
Dora {aside). How worn he looks, 
poor man ! who is it, I wonder. 
How can I help him ? {Aloud. ) Might 
I ask your name ? 
Harold. Harold. 

Dora. I never heard her mention you. 
Harold. I met her first at a farm in 
Cumberland — 
Her uncle's. 

Dora. She was there six years ago. 
Harold. And if she never mention'd 
me, perhaps 
The painful circumstances which I heard — 
I will not vex you by repeating them — 
Only last week at Littlechester, drove me 
From out her memory. She has dis- 

appear'd, 
They told me, from the farm — and 
darker news. 
Dora. She has disappear'd, poor 
darling, from the world — 
Left but one dreadful line to say, that we 
Should find her in the river ; and we 

dragg'd 
The Littlechester river all in vain : 
Have sorrow'd for her all these years in 

vain. 
And my poor father, utterly broken down 
By losing her — she was his favourite 

child- 
Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear, 
But for the slender help that I can give. 
Fall into ruin. Ah ! that villain, Edgar, 
If he should ever show his face among 
us, 



Our men and boys would hoot him, stone 

him, hunt him 
With pitchforks off the farm, for all of 

them 
Loved her, and she was worthy of all 
love. 
Harold. They say, we should forgive 

our enemies. 
Dora. Ay, if the wretch were dead I 
might forgive him ; 
We know not whether he be dead or 
living. 
Harold. What Edgar ? 
Dora. Philip Edgar of Toft Hall 

In Somerset. Perhaps you know him ? 
Harold. Slightly. 

{Aside.) Ay, for how slightly have I 
known myself. 
Dora. This Edgar, then, is living? 
Harold. Living? well — 

One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in Somer- 
set 
Is lately dead. 

Dora. Dead ! — is there more than 

one ? 
Harold. Nay — now — not one, {aside) 

for I am Philip Harold. 
Dora. That one, is he then — dead ! 
Harold. {Aside.) My father's death. 
Let her believe it mine ; this, for the 

moment. 
Will leave me a free field. 

Dora. Dead ! and this world 

Is brighter for his absence as that other 
Is darker for his presence. 

Harold. Is not this 

To speak too pitilessly of the dead ? 
Dora. My five-years' anger cannot 
die at once. 
Not all at once with death and him. I 

trust 
I shall forgive him — by -and -by — not 

now. 
O sir, you seem to have a heart ; if you 
Had seen us that wild morning when we 

found 
Her bed unslept in, storm and shower 

lashing 
Her casement, her poor spaniel wailing 
for her. 



792 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



That desolate letter, blotted with her 

tears, 
Which told us we should never see her 

more — 
Our old nurse crying as if for her own 

child, 
My father stricken with his first paralysis, 
And then with blindness — had you been 

one of us 
And seen all this, then you would know 

it is not 
So easy to forgive — even the dead. 

Harold. But sure am I that of your 

gentleness 
You will forgive him. She, you mourn 

for, seem'd 
A miracle of gentleness — would not blur 
A moth's wing by the touching ; would 

not crush 
The fly that drew her blood ; and, were 

she living. 
Would not — if penitent — have denied 

him her 
Forgiveness. And perhaps the man 

himself, 
When hearing of that piteous death, has 

suffer'd 
More than we know. But wherefore 

waste your heart 
In looking on a chill and changeless Past? 
Iron will fuse, and marble melt ; the Past 
Remains the Past. But you are young, 

and — pardon me — 
As lovely as your sister. Who can tell 
What golden hours, with what full 

hands, may be 
Waiting you in the distance? Might I 

call 
Upon your father — I have seen the 

world — 
And cheer his blindness with a traveller's 

tales ? 
Dora. Call if you will, and when you 

will. I cannot 
Well answer for my father ; but if you 
Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva 
When in her brighter girlhood, I at least 
Will bid you welcome, and will listen to 

you. 
Now I must go. 



Harold. But give me first your hand : ' 
I do not dare, like an old friend, to 

shake it. 
I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege 
When you shall know me better. 

Dora. {Aside.) How beautiful 

His manners are, and how unlike the 

farmer's ! J 

You are staying here ? \ 

Harold. Yes, at the wayside inn 

Close by that alder-island in your brook, 
' The Angler's Home.' 

Dora. Are yozi one ? 

Harold. No, but I 

Take some delight in sketching, and the 

country 
Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants 
Seem semi-barbarous. 

Dora. I am glad it pleases you ; 

Yet I, born here, not only love the 

country. 
But its inhabitants too ; and you, I doubt 

not. 
Would take to them as kindly, if you 

cared 
To live some time among them. 

Harold. If I did, 

Then one at least of its inhabitants 
Might have more charm for me than all 
the country. 
Dora. That one, then, should be 

grateful for your preference, 
Harold. I cannot tell, tho' standing 
in her presence. 
{Aside.) She colours ! 

Dora. Sir ! 

Harold. Be not afraid of me. 

For these are no conventional flourishes. 
I do most earnestly assure you that 

Your likeness 

\Shouts and cries withotd. 
Dora. What was that ? my poor 
blind father — 

Enter FARMING Man 
Farming Man. Miss Dora, Dan 
Smith's cart hes runned ower a laady i' 
the holler laane, and they ha' ta'en the 
body up inter your chaumber, and they 
be all a-callin' for ye. 



ACT II 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



793 



Dora. The body ! — Heavens ! I come ! 
Harold. But you are trembling. 

Allow me to go with you to the farm. 

{^Exeitnt. 
Enter Dobson 

Dobson. What feller wur it as 'a been 
a-talkin' fur haafe an hour wi' my Dora ? 
{Looking after him.) Seeams I ommost 
knaws the back on 'im — drest like a 
gentleman, too. Damn all gentlemen, 
says I ! I should ha' thowt they'd bed 
anew o' gentlefoalk, as I telled 'er to-daay 
when she fell foul upo' me. 

Minds ma o' sunmiun. I could swear 
to that ; but that be all one, fur I haates 
'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer ! 
he turns round. Philip Hedgar o' 
Soomerset ! Philip Hedgar o' Soomer- 
set ! — Noa — yeas — thaw the feller's gone 
and maade such a litter of his faace. 

Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha ! 
a-plaayin' the saame gaame wi' my Dora 
— I'll Soomerset tha. 

I'd Hke to drag 'im thruff the herse- 
pond, and she to be a-lookin' at it. I'd 
like to leather 'im black and blue, and 
she to be a-laughin' at it. I'd like to 
fell 'im as dead as a bullock ! ( Clenching 
his fist.) 

But what 'ud she saay to that ? She 
telled me once not to meddle wi' 'im, and 
now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't 
coom at 'er. 

It niun be hivi. Noa ! Fur she'd 
niver 'a been talkin' haafe an hour wi' 
the divil 'at killed her oan sister, or she 
beant Dora Steer. 

Yeas ! Fur she niver knawed 'is faace 
when 'e wur 'ere afoor ; but I'll maake 
'er knaw ! I'll maake 'er knaw ! 

Enter Harold 

Naay, but I mun git out on 'is waay 
now, or I shall be the death on 'im. 

{Exit. 
Harold. How the clown glared at 
me ! that Dobbins, is it. 
With whom I used to jar ? but can he 
trace me 



Thro' five years' absence, and my change 

of name. 
The tan of southern summers and the 

beard ? 
I may as well avoid him. 

Ladylike ! 
Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness ! 
How came she by it ? — a daughter of the 

fields. 
This Dora ! 
She gave her hand, unask'd, at the 

farm -gate ; 
I almost think she half return'd the 

pressure 
Of mine. What, I that held the orange 

blossom 
Dark as the yew? but may not those, who 

march 
Before their age, turn back at times, and 

make 
Courtesy to custom ? and now the stronger 

motive, 
Misnamed free-will — the crowd would 

call it conscience — 
Moves me — to what ? I am dreaming ; 

for the past 
Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes 

thro' hers — 
A spell upon me ! Surely I loved Eva 
More than I knew ! or is it but the past 
That brightens in retiring? Oh, last 

night, 
Tired, pacing my new lands at Little- 

chester, 
I dozed upon the bridge, and the black 

river 
Flow'd thro' my dreams — if dreams they 

were. She rose 
From the foul flood and pointed toward 

the farm. 
And her cry rang to me across the 

years, 
' I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar ! 
Come, you will set all right again, and 

father 
Will not die miserable.' I could make 

his age 
A comfort to him — so be more at peace 
With mine own self. Some of my former 

friends 



794 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



ACT III 



Would find my logic faulty ; let them. 
Colour 

Flows thro' my life again, and I have 
lighted 

On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must 

Move in the line of least resistance when 

The stronger motive rules. 

But she hates Edgar. 

May not this Dobbins, or some other, 
spy 

Edgar in Harold? Well then, I must 
make her 

Love Harold first, and then she will for- 
give 

Edgar for Harold's sake. She said her- 
self 

She would forgive him, by-and-by, not 
now — 

For her own sake then, if not for mine — 
not now — 

But by-and-by. 

Enter Dobson behind 

Dobson. By-and-by — eh, lad, dosta 
knaw this paaper ? Ye dropt it upo' the 
road. ' PhiHp Edgar, Esq.' Ay, you be 
a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I hev. 
Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha means wi' 
by-and-by? Fur if ye be goin' to sarve 
our Dora as ye sarved our Eva — then, 
by-and-by, if she weant listen to me when 
I be a-tryin' to saave 'er — if she weant — 
look to thysen, for, by the Lord, I'd think 
na moor o' maakin' an end o' tha nor a 
carrion craw — noa — thaw they hanged ma 
at 'Size fur it. 

Harold. Dobbins, I think ! 

Dobson. I beant Dobbins. 

Harold. Nor am I Edgar, my good 
fellow. 

Dobson. Tha lies ! What hasta been 
saayin' to my Dora ? 

Harold. I have been telling her of the 
death of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, 
Somerset. 

Dobson. Tha lies ! 

Harold {pulling out a netuspaper). 
Well, my man, it seems that you can 
read. Look there — under the deaths. 

Dobson. 'O' the 17th, Philip Edgar, 



o' Toft Hall, Soomerset.' How coom 
thou to be sa like 'im, then ? 

Harold. Naturally enough ; for I am 
closely related to the dead man's family. 

Dobson. An 'ow coom thou by the 
letter to 'im ? 

Harold. Naturally again ; for as I 
used to transact all his business for him, 
I had to look over his letters. Now 
then, see these {takes otit letters). Half 
a score of them, all directed to me — 
Harold. 

Dobson. 'Arold ! 'Arold ! 'Arold, so 
they be. 

Harold. My name is Harold ! Good 
day, Dobbins ! \_Exit. 

Dobson. 'Arold ! The feller's clean 
daazed, an' maazed, an' maated, an' mud- 
dled ma. Dead ! It mun be true, fur it 
wur i' print as black as owt. Naay, but 
' Good daay , Dobbins. ' Why, that wur 
the very twang on 'im. Eh, lad, but 
whether thou be Hedgar, or Hedgar's 
business man, thou hesn't naw business 
'ere wi' viy Dora, as I knaws on, an' 
whether thou calls thysen Hedgar or 
Harold, if thou stick to she I'll stick to 
thee — stick to tha like a weasel to a 
rabbit, I will. Ay ! and I'd like to shoot 
tha like a rabbit an' all. ' Good daay, 
Dobbins.' Dang tha ! 



ACT III 

SCENE.— A Room in Steer's House. 
Door leading into Bedroom at 

THE BACK ' 

Do7'a {ringing a handbell). Milly ! 
Enter Milly 

Milly. The little 'ymn? Yeas, Miss; 
but I wur so ta'en up wi' leadin' the owd 
man about all the blessed murnin' 'at I 
ha' nobbut lamed mysen haafe on it. 

' O man, forgive thy mortal foe, 
Nor ever strike him blow for blow ; 
For all the souls on earth that live 
To be forgiven must forgive. 



\ 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



795 



Forgive him seventy times and seven ; 
For all the blessed souls in Heaven 
Are both forgivers and forgiven.' 

But I'll git the book agean, and lam 
mysen the rest, and saay it to ye afoor 
dark; ye ringed fur that, Miss, didn't ye? 

Do7-a. No, Milly ; but if the farming- 
men be come for their wages, to send 
them up to me. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss. \Exit. 

Dora {sitting at desk counting money). 
Enough at any rate for the present. 
{Enter Farming Men.) Good afternoon, 
my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still 
continues too unwell to attend to you, 
but the schoolmaster looked to the paying 
you your wages when I was away, didn't 
he? 

Men. Yeas ; and thanks to ye. 

Dora. Some of our workmen have 
left us, but he sent me an alphabetical 
list of those that remain, so, Allen, I 
may as well begin with you. 

Allen {with his hand to his ear). 
Halfabitical ! Taiike one o' the young 
'uns fust. Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and I 
wur hallus scaared by a big word ; least- 
waays, I should be wi' a lawyer. 

Dora. 1 spoke of your names, Allen, 
as they are arranged here {shows book) — 
according to their first letters. 

Allen. Letters ! Yeas, I sees now. 
Them be what they larns the childer' at 
school, but I were burn afoor schoolin- 
time. 

Dora. But, Allen, tho' you can't read, 
you could whitewash that cottage of yours 
where your grandson had the fever. 

Allen. I'll hev it done o' Monday. 

Do7-a. Else if the fever spread, the 
parish will have to thank you for it. 

Allen. Mea ? why, it be the Lord's 
doin', noan o' mine ; d'ye think rd gi'e 
'em the fever ? But I thanks ye all the 
saame. Miss. {Takes money.) 

Dora {calling out names). Higgins, 
Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, 
Skipworth ! {All take money.) Did you 
find rhat you worked at all the worse 



upon the cold tea than you would have 
done upon the beer ? 

Higgins. Noii, Miss ; we worked naw 
wuss upo' the cowd tea ; but we'd ha' 
worked better upo' the beer. 

Dora. Come, come, you worked well 
enough, and I am much obliged to all of 
you. There's for you, and you, and 
you. Count the money and see if it's all 
right. 

Men. All right, Miss ; and thank ye 
kindly. 

{^Exeunt Luscombe, Nokes, Old- 
ham, Skipworth. 

Dora. Dan Smith, my father and I 
forgave you stealing our coals. 

[Dan Smith advances to Dora. 

Dan Smith {bellowing). Whoy, O 
lor. Miss ! that wur sa long back, and 
the walls sa thin, and the winders 
brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and 
my missus a-gittin' ower 'er lyin'-in. 

Dora. Didn't I say that we had for- 
given you? But, Dan Smith, they tell 
me that you — and you have six children 
— spent all your last Saturday's wages at 
the ale-house; that you were stupid 
drunk all Sunday, and so ill in conse- 
quence all Monday, that you did not 
come into the hayfield. Why should I 
pay you your full wages ? 

Dan Smith. I be ready to taake the 
pledge. 

Dora. And as ready to break it again. 
Besides it was you that were driving 
the cart — and I fear you were tipsy then, 
too — when you lamed the lady in the 
hollow lane. 

Dan Smith {bellowing). O lor, Miss ! 



noa, noa, noa 



! Ye sees the holler laane 



be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and 
wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it 
gi'es a turn like, and 'ow should I see to 
laame the laady, and mea coomin' along 
pretty sharp an' all ? 

Dora. Well, there are your wages ; 
the next time you waste them at a pot- 
house you get no more from me. {Exit 
Dan Smith.) Sally Allen, you worked 
for Mr. Dobson, didn't you? 



796 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



ACT 111 



Sally [advanchig). Yeas, Miss ; but he 
wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im. 

Dora. Why should he be rough with 
you ? You are as good as a man in the hay- 
field. What's become of your brother ? 

Sally. 'Listed for a soadger, Miss, i' 
the Queen's Real Hard Tillery. 

Dora. And your sweetheart — when 
are you and he to be married ? 

Sally. At Michaelmas, Miss, please 
God. 

Dora. You are ah honest pair. I 
will come to your wedding. 

Sally. An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, 
moor nor fur the waage. 

{Going — retzirns.) 'A cotched ma 
about the waaist. Miss, when 'e wur 'ere 
afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little sweet- 
art, an soa I knaw'd 'im when I seed 
'im agean an I telled feyther on 'im. 

Dora. What is all this, Allen ? 

Allen. Why, Miss Dora, mea and 
my maates, us three, we wants to hev 
three words wi' ye. 

Higgijis. That be 'im, and mea, Miss. 

Jackson. An' mea, Miss. 

Allen. An' we weant mention naw 
naames, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil 
afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the master 
goas clean off his 'ead when he 'ears the 
naame on 'im ; but us three, arter Sally'd 
telled us on 'im, we fun' 'im out a-walkin' 
i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, 
upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, 
wi' your leave, we wants to leather 'im. 

Dora. Who ? 

Allen. Him as did the mischief here, 
five year' sin'. 

Dora. Mr. Edgar ? 

Allen. Theer, Miss ! You ha' naamed 
'im — not me. 

Dora. He's dead, man — dead ; gone 
to his account — dead and buried. 

Allen. I beant sa 'sewer o' that, fur 
Sally knaw'd 'im ; Now then ? 

Dora. Yes ; it was in the Somerset- 
shire papers. 

Allen. Then yon mun be his brother, 
an' we'll leather Hm. 

Dora. I never heard that he had a 



brother. Some foolish mistake of 
Sally's ; but what ! would you beat a 
man for his brother's fault ? That were 
a wild justice indeed. Let bygones be 
bygones. Go home ! Good-night ! {Alt 
exeunt.) I have once more paid them 
all. The work of the farm will go on 
still, but for how long ? We are almost 
at the bottom oi the well : little more to be 
drawn from it — and what then? Encum- 
bered as we are, who would lend us any- 
thing? We shall have to sell all the 
land, which Father, for a whole life, has 
been getting together, again, and that, I 
am sure, would be the death of him. 
What am I to do ? Farmer Dobson, 
were I to marry him, has promised to 
keep our heads above water ; and the 
man has doubtless a good heart, and a 
true and lasting love for me : yet — though 
I can be sorry for him — as the good 
Sally says, ' I can't abide him ' — almost 
brutal, and matched with my Harold is 
like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. 
But then, he, too — will he ever be of 
one faith with his wife ? which is my 
dream of a true marriage. Can I fancy 
him kneeling M'ith me, and uttering the 
same prayer ; standing up side by side 
with me, and singing the same hymn ? I 
fear not. Have I done wisely, then, in 
accepting him ? But may not a girl's 
love-dream have too much romance in it 
to be realised all at once, or altogether, 
or anywhere but in Heaven ? And yet I 
had once a vision of a pure and perfect 
marriage, where the man and the woman, 
only differing as the stronger and the 
weaker, should walk hand in hand to- 
gether down this valley of tears, as they 
call it so truly, to the grave at the bottom, 
and lie down there together in the dark- 
ness which would seem but for a moment, 
to be wakened again together by the light 
of the resurrection, and no more partings 
for ever and for ever. { Walks up and 
down. She sings.) 

' O happy lark, that warblest high 
Above thy lowly nest, 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



197 



O brook, that bravvlest merrily by 
Thro' fields that once were blest, 

O tower spiring to the sky, 
O graves in daisies drest, 

O Love and Life, how weary am I, 
And how I long for rest.' 

There, there, I am a fool ! Tears ! I 
have sometimes been moved to tears by 
a chapter of fine writing in a novel ; but 
what have I to do with tears now ? All 
depends on me — Father, this poor girl, 
the farm, everything ; and they both love 
me — I am all in all to both ; and he 
loves me too, I am quite sure of that. 
Courage, courage ! and all will go well. 
{Goes to bedroom door ; opens it.) How 
dark your room is ! Let me bring you 
in here where there is still full daylight. 
{Brings 'Evo, forward.) Why, you look 
better. 

Eva. And I feel so much better, that 
I trust I may be able by-and-by to help 
you in the business of the farm ; but I 
must not be known yet. Has anyone 
found me out, Dora ? 

Dora. Oh, no ; you kept your veil 
too close for that when they carried you 
in ; since then, no one has seen you but 
myself. 

Eva. Yes — this Milly, 

Dora. Poor blind Father's little 
guide, Milly, who came to us three years 
after you were gone, how should she 
know you ? But now that you have been 
brought to us as it were from the grave, 
dearest Eva, and have been here so long, 
will you not speak with Father to-day ? 

Eva. Do you think that I may ? No, 
not yet. I am not equal to it yet. 

Dora. Why? Do you still suffer 
from your fall in the hollow lane ? 

Eva. Bruised ; but no bones broken. 

Dora. I have always told Father 
that the huge old ashtree there would 
cause an accident some day ; but he 
would never cut it down, because one of 
the Steers had planted it there in former 
times. 

Eva. If it had killed one of the 



Steers there the other day, it might have 
been better for her, for him, and for you. 

Dora. Come, come, keep a good 
heart ! Better for me ! That's good. 
How better for me ? 

Eva. You tell me you have a lover. 
Will he not fly from you if he learn the 
story of my shame and that I am still 
living ? 

Dora. No ; I am sure that when we 
are married he will be willing that you 
and Father should live with us ; for, in- 
deed, he tells me that he met you once in 
the old times, and was much taken with 
you, my dear. 

Eva. Taken with me ; who was he ? 
Have you told him I am here ? 

Dora. No ; do you wish it ? 

Eva. See, Dora ; you yourself are 
ashamed of me {zveeps), and I do not 
wonder at it. 

Dora. But I should wonder at my- 
self if it were so. Have we not been 
all in all to one another from the time 
when we first peeped into the bird's nest, 
waded in the brook, ran after the butter- 
flies, and prattled to each other that we 
would marry fine* gentlemen, and played 
at being fine ladies ? 

Eva. That last was my Father's 
fault, poor man. And this lover of yours 
— this Mr. Harold — is a gentleman ? 

Dora. That he is, from head to foot. 
I do believe I lost my heart to him the 
very first time we met, and I love him 
so much — 

Eva. Poor Dora ! 

Dora. That I dare not tell him how 
much I love him. 

Eva. Better not. Has he offered 
you marriage, this gentleman ? 

Dora. Could I love him else ? 

Eva. And are you quite sure that 
after marriage this gentleman will not be 
shamed of his poor farmer's daughter 
among the ladies in his drawing-room ? 

Dora. Shamed of me in a drawing- 
room ! Wasn't Miss Vavasour, our 
schoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady 
born ? Were not our fellow-pupils all 



798 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



ladies ? Wasn't dear mother herself at 
least by one side a lady ? Can't I speak 
like a lady ; pen a letter like a lady ; talk 
a little French like a lady ; play a little 
like a lady ? Can't a girl when she loves 
her husband, and he her, make herself 
anything he wishes her to be ? Shamed 
of me in a drawing-room, indeed ! See 
here ! ' I hope your Lordship is quite 
recovered of your gout ? ' ( Curtsies. ) 
' Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day ? 
{Curtsies.) I can recommend our Volti- 
geur.' 'I am sorry that we could not 
attend your Grace's party on the loth !' 
{Ctirtsies.) There, I am glad my non- 
sense has made you smile ! 

Eva. I have heard that ' your Lord- 
ship,' and 'your Ladyship,' and 'your 
Grace ' are all growing old-fashioned ! 

Dora. But the love of sister for sister 
can never be old-fashioned. I have been 
unwilling to trouble you with questions, 
but you seem somewhat better to-day. 
We found a letter in your bedroom torn 
into bits. I couldn't make it out. 
What was it ? 

Eva. From him ! from him ! He 
said we had been most happy together, 
and he trusted that some time we should 
meet again, for he had not forgotten his 
promise to come when I called him. 
But that was a mockery, you know, for 
he gave me no address, and there was 
no word of marriage ; and, O Dora, he 
signed himself ' Yours gratefully' — fancy, 
Dora, ' gratefully ' ! ' Yours gratefully ' ! 

Dora. Infamous wretch ! {Aside.) 
Shall I tell her he is dead ? No ; she is 
still too feeble. 

Eva. Hark ! Dora, some one is com- 
ing. I cannot and I will not see anybody. 

Dora. It is only Milly. 

Enter Milly, with basket of roses 

Dora. Well, Milly, why do you come 
in so roughly ? The sick lady here might 
have been asleep. 

Milly. Please, Miss, Mr. Dobson 
telled me to saay he's browt some of Miss 
Eva's roses for the sick laadv to smell on. 



Dora. Take them, dear. Say that 
the sick lady thanks him ! Is he here ? 

Milly. Yeas, Miss ; and he wants to 
speak to ye partic'lar, 

Dora. Tell him I cannot leave the 
sick lady just yet. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss ; but he says he 
wants to tell ye summut very partic'lar. 

Dora. Not to-day. What are you 
staying for ? 

Milly. Why, Miss, I be afeard I 
shall set him a-s wearing like ony think. 

Dora. And what harm will that do 
you, so that you do not copy his bad 
manners? Go, child. {Exit Milly.) 
But, Eva, why did you write ' Seek me 
at the bottom of the river ' ? 

Eva. Why ? because I meant it ! — 
that dreadful night ! that lonely walk to 
Littlechester, the rain beating in my face 
all the way, dead midnight when I came 
upon the bridge ; the river, black, slimy, 
swirling under me in the lamplight, by 
the rotten wharfs — but I was so mad, 
that I mounted upon the parapet 

Dora. You make me shudder ! 

Eva. To fling myself over, when I 
heard a voice, ' Girl, what are you doing 
there ? ' It was a Sister of Mercy, come 
from the death -bed of a pauper, who had 
died in his misery blessing God, and the 
Sister took me to her house, and bit by 
bit — for she promised secrecy — I told 
her all. 

Dora. And what then ? 

Eva. She would have persuaded me 
to come back here, but I couldn't. 
Then she got me a place as nursery 
governess, and when the children grew 
too old for me, and I asked her once 
more to help me, once more she said, 
' Go home ' ; but I hadn't the heart or face 
to do it. And then — what would Father 



say 



? I sank so low that I went into 



service — the drudge of a lodging-house 
— and when the mistress died, and I 
appealed to the Sister again, her answer — 
I think I have it about me — yes, there 
it is! 

Dora {reads). ' My dear Child, — I 



J 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



799 



can do no more for you, I have done 
wrong in keeping your secret ; your 
Father must be now in extreme old age. 
Go back to him and ask his forgiveness 
before he dies. — Sister Agatha.' 
Sister Agatha is right. Don't you long 
for Father's forgiveness ! 

Eva. I would almost die to have it ! 

Dora. And he may die before he 
gives it ; may drop off any day, any hour. 
You must see him at once. {Rings bell. 
Enter Milly.) Milly, my dear, how did 
you leave Mr. Steer? 

Milly. He's been a-moanin' and a- 
groanin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he be 
wakkenin' oop. 

Dora. Tell him that I and the lady 
here wish to see him. You see she is 
lamed, and cannot go down to him. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss, I will. 

{^Exit Milly. 

Dora. I ought to prepare you. You 
must, not expect to find our Father as he 
was five years ago. He is much altered ; 
but I trust that your return — for you 
know, my dear, you were always his 
favourite — will give him, as they say, a 
new lease of life. 

Eva [clinging to Dora). Oh, Dora, 
Dora ! 

Enter Steer led by Milly 

Steer. Hes the cow cawved ? 

Dora. No, Father. 

Steer. Be the colt dead ? 

Dora. No, Father. 

Steer. He wur sa bellows'd out wi' 
the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em to 
gallop 'im. Be he dead ? 

Dora. Not that I know. 

Steer. What hasta sent fur me, then, 
fur? 

Dora {taking Steer's arm). Well, 
Father, I have a surprise for you. 

Steer. I ha' niver been surprised but 
once i' my life, and I went blind upon 
it. 

Dora. Eva has come home. 

Steer. Hoam ? fro' the bottom o' the 
river ? 



Dora. No, Father, that w'as a mis- 
take. She's here again. 

Steer. The Steers was all gentlefoalks 
i' the owd times, an' I w^orked early an' 
laate to maake 'em all gentlefoalks agean. 
The land belonged to the Steers i' the 
owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers 
agean : I bowt it back agean ; but I 
couldn't buy my darter back agean when 
she lost hersen, could I ? I eddicated 
boath on 'em to marry gentlemen, an' one 
on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the river. 

Dora. No, Father, she's here. 

Steer. Here ! she moant coom here. 
What would her mother saay ? If it be 
her ghoast, we mun abide it. We can't 
keep a ghoast out. 

Eva {falling at his feet). O forgive 
me ! forgive me ! 

Steer. Who said that ? Taake me 
awaay, little gell. It be one o' my bad 
daays. [Exit Steer led by Milly. 

Dora {smoothing 'ExsCs, fojxhead). Be 
not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You 
heard him say it was one of his bad days. 
He will be sure to know you to-morrow. 

Eva. It is almost the last of my bad 
days, I think. I am very faint. I 
must lie down. Give me your arm. 
Lead me back again. 

[Dora takes Eva into inner 7'oom. 

Enter MiLLY 

Milly. Miss Dora ! Miss Dora ! 

Dora {returning and leaving the bed- 
rooni door ajar). Quiet ! quiet ! What 
is it? 

Milly. Mr. 'Arold, Miss. 

Dora. Below ? 

Milly. Yeiis, Miss. He be saayin' 
a word to the owd man, but he'll coom 
up if ye lets 'im. 

Dora. Tell him, then, that I'm wait- 
ing for him. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss. 

\^Exit. Dora sits pensively and waits. 

Enter Harold 
Harold. You are pale, my Dora ! 
but the ruddiest cheek 



8oo 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



ACT III 



That ever charm'd the plowman of your 

wolds 
Might wish its rose a lily, could it look 
But half as lovely. I was speaking 

with 
Your father, asking his consent — you 

wish'd me — 
That we should marry : he would answer 

nothing, 
I could make nothing of him ; but, my 

flower, 
You look so weary and so worn ! What 

is it 
Has put you out of heart ? 

Dora. It puts me in heart 

Again to see you ; but indeed the state 
Of my poor father puts me out of heart. 
Is yours yet living ? 

Harold. No — I told you. 
Dora. When ? 

Harold. Confusion ! — Ah well, well ! 
the state we all 
Must come to in our spring-and-winter 

world 
If we live long enough ! and poor Steer 

looks 
The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd 
To the earth he came from, to the grave 

he goes to, 
Beneath the burthen of years. 

Dora. More like the picture 

Of Christian in my ' Pilgrim's Progress ' 

here, 
Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen 
of sin. 
Harold. Sin ! What sin ? 
Dora. Not his own. . 

Harold. That nursery-tale 

Still read, then ? 

Dora. Yes ; our carters and our 
shepherds 
Still find a comfort there. 

Harold. Carters and shepherds ! 

Dora. Scorn ! I hate scorn. A 
soul with no religion — 
My mother used to say that such a one 
Was without rudder, anchor, compass — 

might be 
Blown everyway with every gust and 
wreck 



On any rock ; and tho' you are good and 

gentle. 
Yet if thro' any want — 

Harold. Of this religion ? 

Child, read a little history, you will find 
The common brotherhood of man has 

been 
Wrong'd by the cruelties of his religions 
More than could ever have happen'd thro' 

the want 
Of any or all of them. 

Dora. — But, O dear friend, 

If thro' the want of any — I mean the true 

one — 
And pardon me for saying it — you should 

ever 
Be tempted into doing what might seem 
Not altogether worthy of you, I think 
That I should break my heart, for you 

have taught me 
To love you. 

Harold. What is this ? some one been 

stirring 
Against me ? he, your rustic amourist, 
The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here. 
This Dobson of your idyll ? 

Dora. No, Sir, no ! 

Did you not tell me he was crazed with 

jealousy. 
Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would 

say anything ? 
Did / not promise not to listen to him, 
Nor ev'n to see the man ? 

Harold. Good ; then what is it 

That makes you talk so dolefully ? 

Dora. I told you — 

My father. Well, indeed, a friend just 

now, 
One that has been much wrong'd, whose 

griefs are mine. 
Was warning me that if a gentleman 
Should wed a farmer's daughter, he 

would be 
Sooner or later shamed of her among 
The ladies, born his equals. 

Harold. More fool he ! 

What I that have been call'd a Socialist, 
A Communist, a Nihilist — what you 

will ! 

Dora. What are all these ? 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MA V 



8oi 



Harold. Utopian idiotcies. 

They did not last three Junes. Such 

rampant weeds 
Strangle each other, die, and make the 

soil 
For Csesars, Cromwells, and Napoleons 
To root their power in. I have freed 

myself 
From all such dreams, and some will say 

because 
I have inherited my Uncle. Let them. 
But — shamed of you, my Empress ! I 

should prize 
The pearl of Beauty, even if I found it 
Dark with the soot of slums. 

Dora. But I can tell you, 

We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be 

fallen. 
See there our shield. [Pointing to arms 

on mantelpiece.) 

For I have heard the Steers 
Had land in Saxon times ; and your own 

name 
Of Harold sounds so English and so old 
I am sure you must be proud of it. 

Harold. Not I ! 

As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it 
For some three thousand acres. I have 

land now 
And wealth, and lay both at your feet. 

Dora. And what was 

Your name before ? 

Harold. Come, come, my girl, enough 
Of this strange talk. I love you and you 

me. 
True, I have held opinions, hold some 

still. 
Which you would scarce approve of : for 

all that, 
I am a man not prone to jealousies, 
Caprices, humours, moods ; but very 

ready 
To make allowances, and mighty slow 
To feel offences. Nay, I do believe 
I could forgive — well, almost anything — 
And that more freely than your formal 

priest. 
Because I know more fully than he can 
What poor earthworms are all and each 

of us, 



Here crawling in this boundless Nature. 

Dora, 
If marriage ever brought a woman happi- 
ness 
I doubt not I can make you happy. 

Dora. You make me 

Happy already. 

Harold. And I never said 

As much before to any woman living. 
Dora. No ? 

Harold. No ! by this true kiss, yoti 
are the first 
I ever have loved truly. 

[ They kiss each other. 
Eva [with a wild cry). Philip Edgar ! 
Harold. The phantom cry ! You — 

did you hear a cry ? 
Dora. She must be crying out ' Edgar ' 

in her sleep. 
Harold. Who must be crying out 

' Edgar ' in her sleep ? 
Dora. Your pardon for a minute. 

She must be waked. 
Harold. Who must be waked ? 
Dora. I am not deaf : you fright me. 
What ails you ? 
Harold. Speak. 

Dora. You know her, Eva. 

Harold. Eva ! 

\Eva opens the door and stands in the entry. 
She! 

Eva. Make her happy, then, and I 

forgive you. {Falls dead. 

Do7-a. Happy ! What ? Edgar ? Is 

it so ? Can it be ? 

They told me so. Yes, yes ! I see it 

all now. 

she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister ! 
He is yours again — he will love you 

again ; 

1 give him back to you again. Look 

up ! 
One word, or do but smile ! Sweet, do 
you hear me ? 

[Puts her hand on Eva's heart. 
There, there — the heart, O God ! — the 

poor young heart 
Broken at last — all still — and nothing left 
To live for. 

[Falls on body of her sister. 

3F 



802 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



ACT III 



Harold. Living . . . dead . . , 

She said ' all still. 
Nothing to live for.' 

She — she knows me — now . . . 
{A pause. ) 
She knew me from the first, she juggled 

with me, 
She hid this sister, told me she was 

dead — 
I have wasted pity on her — not dead 

now — 
No ! acting, playing on me, both of them. 
They drag the river for her ! no, not 

they ! 
Playing on me — not dead now — a swoon 

— a scene — 
Yet — how she made her wail as for the 

dead ! 

Enter MiLLY 

Milly. Please, Mister 'Arold. 
Harold {roughly). Well ? 

Milly. The owd man's coom'd agean 
to 'issen, an' wants 
To hev a word wi' ye about the marriage. 
Harold. The what ? 
Milly. The marriage. 

Harold. The marriage ? 

Milly. Yeas, the marriage. 

Granny says marriages be maade i' 'eaven. 
Haj-old. She lies ! They are made 
in Hell. Child, can't you see ? 
Tell them to fly for a doctor. 

Milly. O law — yeas, Sir ! 

I'll run fur 'im mysen. [Exit. 

Harold. All silent there. 

Yes, deathlike ! Dead ? I dare not 

look : if dead. 
Were it best to steal away, to spare my- 
self, 
And her too, pain, pain, pain ? 

My curse on all 
This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams 
Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities 
That blast our natural passions into 
pains ! 

Enter DoBSON 

Dobson. You, Master Hedgar, Harold, 
or whativer 



They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goas 
By haafe a scoor o' naames — out o' the 
chaumber. 

^Dragging him past the body. 
Harold. Not that way, man ! Curse 
on your brutal strength ! 
I cannot pass that way. 

Dobson. Out o' the chaumber ! 

I'll mash tha into nowt. 

Harold. The mere wild-beast ! 

Dobson. Out o' the chaumber, dang 

tha! 
Harold. Lout, churl, clown ! 

[ While they are shouting and strug- 
gling Dora rises a7id comes be- 
tween them. 
Dora {to Dobson). Peace, let him be : 
it is the chamber of Death ! 
Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman, 
A hundred times more worth a woman's 

love, 
Than this, this — but I waste no words 

upon him : 
His wickedness is like my wretchedness — 
Beyond all language. 

{To Harold.) 
You — you see her there ! 
Only fifteen when first you came on her, 
And then the sweetest flower of all the 

wolds, 
So lovely in the promise of her May, 
So winsome in her grace and gaiety, 
So loved by all the village people here, 

So happy in herself and in her home 

Dobson {agitated). Theer, theer ! ha' 

done. I can't abear to see her. 

lExit. 

Dora. A child, and all as trustful as 

a child ! 

Five years of shame and suffering broke 

the heart 
That only beat for you ; and he, the 

father, 
Thro' that dishonour which you brought 

upon us, 
Has lost his health, his eyesight, even 
his mind. 
Harold {covering his face). Enough ! 
Dora. It seem'd so ; only there was 
left 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y 



803 



A second daughter, and to her you came 
Veihng one sin to act another. 

Harold. No ! 

You wrong me there ! hear, hear me ! 

I wish'd, if you \^Paiises. 

Dora. If I 

Harold. Could love me, could be 

brought to love me 

As I loved you 

Dora. What then ? 

Harold. I wish'd, I hoped 

To make, to make 

Dora. What did you hope to make ? 
Harold. 'Twere best to make an end 
of my lost life. 
O Dora, Dora ! 

Dora. What did you hope to make ? 
Hai-old. Make, make ! I cannot find 
the word — forgive it — 
Amends. 

Dora. For what ? to whom ? 

Harold. To him, to you ! 

{Falling at her feet. 



Dora. To him ! to ??ie ! 

No, not with all your wealth. 
Your land, your life ! Out in the fiercest 

storm 
That ever made earth tremble — he, 

nor I — 
The shelter of your roof — not for one 

moment — 
Nothing from yoii ! 
Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, 
Push'd from all doors as if we bore the 

plague. 
Smitten with fever in the open field. 
Laid famine -stricken at the gates of 

Death — 
Nothing from you ! 

But she there — her last word 
Forgave — and I forgive you. If you 

ever 
Forgive yourself, you are even lower 

and baser 
Than even I can well believe you. Go ! 
{He lies at her feet. Curtain falls. 



THE FORESTERS 

ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN 

DRAMA TIS PERSONyE 

Robin Hood, Earl of Huntingdon. 
King Richard, Cceur de Lion. 
Prince John. 



Followers of Robin Hood. 



Little John, 
Will Scarlet, 
Friar Tuck, 
Much, J 

A Justiciary. 
Sheriff of Nottingham. 
Abbot of St. Mary's. 
Sir Richard Lea. 

Walter Lea, son of Sir Richard Lea. 
Maid Marian, daughter of Sir Richard Lea. 
Kate, attendant on Marian, 
Old Woman. 
Retainers, Messengers, Merry Men, Mercenaries, Friars, Beggars, Sailors, 
Peasants {men and women), etc. 



ACT I 

Scene i.—THE BOND 
Scenes II. III.— THE OUTLAWRY 

SCENE I.— The Garden before Sir 
Richard Lea's Castle 

Kate {gathering flowers). These roses 
for my Lady Marian ; these lilies to 
lighten Sir Richard's black room, where 
he sits and eats his heart for want of 
money to pay the Abbot. \Sings. 

The warrior Earl of Allendale, 

He loved the Lady Anne ; 
The lady loved the master well, 

The maid she loved the man. 
All in the castle garden. 

Or ever the day began. 
The lady gave a rose to the Earl, 

The maid a rose to the man. 
' I go to fight in Scotland 

With many a savage clan ; ' 
The lady gave her hand to the Earl, 

The maid her hand to the man. 
' Farewell, farewell, my warrior Earl ! ' 

And ever a tear down ran. 
She gave a weeping kiss to the Earl, 

And the maid a kiss to the man. 



Enter four ragged Retainers 

First Retainer. You do well, Mistress 
Kate, to sing and to gather roses. You 
be fed with tit -bits, you, and we be 
dogs that have only the bones, till we 
be only bones our own selves. 

Kate. I am fed with tit-bits no more 
than you are, but I keep a good heart 
and make the most of it, and, truth to 
say. Sir Richard and my Lady Marian 
fare wellnigh as sparely as their people. 

Second Retainer. And look at our 
suits, out at knee, out at elbow. We 
be more like scarecrows in a field than 
decent serving men ; and then, I pray 
you, look at Robin Earl of Huntingdon's 
men. 

First Retainer. She hath looked well 
at one of 'em, Little John. 

Third Retainer. Ay, how fine they 
be in their liveries, and each of 'em as 
full of meat as an egg, and as sleek and 
as round-about as a mellow codlin. 

Fourth Retainer. But I be worse off 
than any of you, for I be lean by nature, 
and if you cram me crop-full I be little 
better than Famine in the picture, but it 
you starve me I be Gaffer Death himself. 



804 



ACT I 



THE FORESTERS 



805 



I would like to show you, Mistress Kate, 
how bare and spare I be on the rib : I 
be lanker than an old horse turned out 
to die on the common. 

Kate. Spare me thy spare ribs, I 
pray thee ; but now I ask you all, did 
none of you love young Walter Lea ? 

First Retainer. Ay, if he had not 
gone to fight the king's battles, we 
should have better battels at home. 

Kate. Right as an Oxford scholar, 
but the boy was taken prisoner by the 
Moors. 

First Retainer. Ay. 

Kate. And Sir Richard was told he 
might be ransomed for two thousand 
marks in gold. 

First Retainer. Ay. 

Kate. Then he borrowed the monies 
from the Abbot of York, the Sheriff's 
brother. And if they be not paid back 
at the end of the year, the land goes to 
the Abbot. 

First Retainer. No news of young 
Walter ? 

Kate. None, nor of the gold, nor the 
man who took out the gold : but now ye 
know why we live so stintedly, and why 
ye have so few grains to peck at. Sir 
Richard must scrape and scrape till he 
get to the land again. Come, come, 
why do ye loiter here ? Carry fresh 
rushes into the dining-hall, for those that 
are there, they be so greasy, and smell 
so vilely that my Lady Marian holds her 
nose when she steps across it. 

Fotirth Retainer. Why there, now ! 
that very word ' greasy ' hath a kind of 
unction in it, a smack of relish about it. 
The rats have gnawed 'em already. I 
pray Heaven we may not have to take to 
the rushes. {Exeunt. 

Kate. Poor fellows ! 

The lady gave her hand to the Earl, 
The maid her hand to the man. 

Enter Little John 

Little John. My master, Robin the 
Earl, is always a -telling us that every 
man, for the sake of the great blessed 



Mother in heaven, and for the love of 
his own little mother on earth, should 
handle all womankind gently, and hold 
them in all honour, and speak small to 
'em, and not scare 'em, but go about to 
come at their love with all manner of 
homages, and observances, and circum- 
bendibuses. 

Kate. The lady gave a rose to the Earl, 
The maid a rose to the man. 

Little John [seeing her). O the sacred 
little thing ! What a shape ! what 
lovely arms ! A rose to the man ! Ay, 
the man had given her a rose and she 
gave him another. 

Kate. Shall I keep one little rose 
for Little John ? No. 

Little John. There, there ! You see 
I was right. She hath a tenderness 
toward me, but is too shy to show it. 
It is in her, in the woman, and the man 
must bring it out of her. 

Rate, She gave a weeping kiss to the Earl, 
The maid a kiss to the man. 

Little John. Did she? But there I 
am sure the ballad is at fault. It should 
have told us how the man first kissed 
the maid. She doesn't see me. Shall 
I be bold? shall I touch her? shall I 
give her the first kiss ? O sweet Kate, 
my first love, the first kiss, the first 
kiss ! 

Kate {turns and kisses him). Why 
lookest thou so amazed ? 

Little John. I cannot tell ; but I 
came to give thee the first kiss, and thou 
hast given it me. 

Kate. But if a man and a maid care 
for one another, does it matter so much 
if the maid give the first kiss ? 

Little John. I cannot tell, but I had 
sooner have given thee the first kiss. I 
was dreaming of it all the way hither. 

Kate. Dream of it, then, all the way 
back, for now I will have none of it. 

Little John. Nay, now thou hast 
given me the man's kiss, let me give thee 
the maid's. 

R'ate, If thou draw one inch nearer, 
I will give thee a buffet on the face. 



8o6 



THE FORESTERS 



Little John. Wilt thou not give me 
rather the little rose for Little John ? 

Kate {throws it down and trainples on 
it). There ! 

[Kate, seeing Marian, exit hurriedly. 

Enter Marian {singing) 

Love flew in at the window 

As Wealth walk'd in at the door. 
' You have come for you saw Wealth coming,' 

said I. 
But he flutter'd his wings with a sweet little cry, 

I'll cleave to you rich or poor. 

Wealth dropt out of the window, 

Poverty crept thro' the door. 
'Well now you would fain follow Wealth,' said I, 
But he flutter'd his wings as he gave me the lie, 

I cling to you all the more. 

Little John. Thanks, my lady — inas- 
much as I am a true believer in true love 
myself, and your Ladyship hath sung the 
old proverb out of fashion. 

Marian. Ay but thou hast ruffled my 
woman, Little John. She hath the fire 
in her face and the dew in her eyes. I 
believed thee to be too solemn and formal 
to be a ruffler. Out upon thee ! 

Little John. I am no ruffler, my 
lady ; but I pray you, my lady, if a man 
and a maid love one another, may the 
maid give the first kiss ? 

Marian. It will be all the more 
gracious of her if she do. 

Little John. I cannot tell. Manners 
be so corrupt, and these are the days of 
Prince John. [Exit. 

Enter SiR Richard Lea {reading a 
bond) 

Sir Richard. Marian ! 

Marian. Father ! 

Sir Richard. Who parted from thee 
even now? 

Marian. That strange starched stiff 
creature, Little John, the Earl's man. 
He would grapple with a lion like the 
King, and is flustered by a girl's kiss. 

Sir Richard. There never was an 
Earl so true a friend of the people as 
Lord Robin of Huntingdon. 



Marian. A gallant Earl. I love him 
as I hate John. 

Sir Richa7-d. I fear me he hath 
wasted his revenues in the service of our 
good king Richard against the party of 
John, as I have done, as I have done : 
and where is Richard ? 

Marian. Cleave to him, father ! he 
will come home at last. 

Sir Richard. I trust he will, but if 
he do not I and thou are but beggars. 

Marian. We will be beggar'd then 
and be true to the King. 

Sir Richard. Thou speakest like a 
fool or a woman. Canst thou endure 
to be a beggar whose whole life hath 
been folded like a blossom in the sheath, 
like a careless sleeper in the down ; who 
never hast felt a want, to whom all 
things, up to this present, have come as 
freely as heaven's air and mother's milk ? 

Marian. Tut, father ! I am none of 
your delicate Norman maidens who can 
only broider and mayhap ride a-hawking 
with the help of the men. I can bake 
and I can brew, and by all the saints I 
can shoot almost as closely with the bow 
as the great Earl himself. I have played 
at the foils too with Kate : but is not 
to-day his birthday ? 

Sir Richard. Dost thou love him 
indeed, that thou keepest a record of his 
birthdays ? Thou knowest that the 
Sheriff of Nottingham loves thee. 

Marian. The Sheriff dare to love 
me ? me who worship Robin the great 
Earl of Huntingdon ? I love him as a 
damsel of his day might have loved 
Harold the Saxon, or Hereward the 
Wake. They both fought against the 
tyranny of the kings, the Normans. 
But then your Sheriff, your little man, 
if he dare to fight at all, would fight for 
his rents, his leases, his houses, his 
monies, his oxen, his dinners, himself. 
Now your great man, your Robin, all 
England's Robin, fights not for himself 
but for the people of England. This 
John — this Norman tyranny — the stream 
is bearing us all down, and our little 



k 



SCENE I 



THE FORESTERS 



807 



Sheriff will ever swim with the stream ! 
but our great man, our Robin, against 
it. And how often in old histories have 
the great men striven against the stream, 
and how often in the long sweep of years 
to come must the great man strive against 
it again to save his country, and the 
liberties of his people ! God bless our 
well-beloved Robin, Earl of Huntingdon. 

Sir Richard. Ay, ay. He wore thy 
colours once at a tourney. I am old 
and forget. Was Prince John there ? 

Marian. The Sheriff of Nottingham 
was there — not John. 

Sir Richard. Beware of John and 
the Sheriff of Nottingham. They hunt 
in couples, and when they look at a maid 
they blast her. 

Marian. Then the maid is not high- 
hearted enough. 

Sir Richard. There — there — be not 
a fool again. Their aim is ever at that 
which flies highest — but O girl, girl, I 
am almost in despair. Those two 
thousand marks lent me by the Abbot 
for the ransom of my son Walter — I 
believed this Abbot of the party of King 
Richard, and he hath sold himself to 
that beast John — they must be paid in a 
year and a month, or I lose the land. 
There is one that should be grateful to 
me overseas, a Count in Brittany — he 
lives near Quimper. I saved his life 
once in battle. He has monies. I will 
go to him. I saved him. I will try 
him. I am all but sure of him. I will 
go to him. 

Mariati. And I will follow thee, and 
God help us both. 

Sir Richard. Child, thou shouldst 
marry one who will pay the mortgage. 
This Robin, this Earl of Huntingdon — he 
is a friend of Richard — I know not, but he 
may save the land, he may save the land. 

Marian {shozuing a cross hnng round 
her neck). Father, you see this cross ? 

Sir Richard. Ay the King, thy god- 
father, gave it thee when a baby. 

Marian. And he said that whenever 
I married he would give me away, and 



on this cross I have sworn \kisses //] that 
till I myself pass away, there is no other 
man that shall give me away. 

Sir Richard. Lo there — thou art 
fool again — I am all as loyal as thyself, 
but what a vow ! what a vow ! 

Re-enter Little John 

Little John. My Lady Marian, your 
woman so flustered me that I forgot my 
message from the Earl. To-day he hath 
accompUshed his thirtieth birthday, and 
he prays your ladyship and your lady- 
ship's father to be present at his banquet 
to-night. 

Marian. Say, we will come. 

Little John. And I pray you, my 
lady, to stand between me and your 
woman, Kate. 

Marian. I will speak with her. 

Little John. I thank you, my lady, 
and I wish you and your ladyship's 
father a most exceedingly good morning. 

lExit. 

Sir Richard. Thou hast answered 
for me, but I know not if I will let thee 
go. 

Marian. I mean to go. 

Sir Richard. Not if I barred thee up 
in thy chamber, like a bird in a cage. 

Marian. Then I would drop from 
the casement, like a spider. 

Sir Richard. But I would hoist the 
drawbridge, like thy master. 

Marian. And I would swim the 
moat, like an otter. 

Sir Richard. But I would set my 
men-at-arms to oppose thee, like the 
Lord of the Castle. 

Marian. And I would break through 
them all, like the King of England. 

Sir Richard. Well, thou shalt go, 
but O the land ! the land ! my great 
great great grandfather, my great great 
grandfather, my great grandfather, my 
grandfather and my own father — they 
were born and bred on it — it was their 
mother — they have trodden it for half a 
thousand years, and whenever I set my 
own foot on it I say to it, Thou art 



8o8 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT I 



mine, and it answers, I am thine to the 
very heart of the earth — but now I have 
lost my gold, I have lost my son, and I 
shall lose my land also. Down to the 
devil with this bond that beggars me ! 

^Flings doiun the bond. 

Marian. Take it again, dear father, 

be not wroth at the dumb parchment. 

Sufficient for the day, deaf father ! let us 

be merry to-night at the banquet. 

SCENE II. — A HALL IN THE HOUSE 

OF Robin Hood the Earl of 
Huntingdon. Doors open into a 
banqueting-hall where he is at 
feast with his friends 

drinking song 

Long live Richard, 

Robin and Richard ! 
Long Hve Richard ! 

Down with John I 
Drink to the Lion-heart 

Every one ! 
Pledge the Plantagenet, 

Him that is gone. 
Who knows whither ? 

God's good Angel 
Help him back hither, 

And down with John ! 
Long live Robin, 

Robin and Richard I 
Long live Robin, 

And down with John ! 

Enter Prince John disguised as a monk 
and the Sheriff of Nottingham. 
Cries of ' Down zvith John,^ * Lotig live 
ICing Richard,' ^ Doivn with John'' 

Prince John. Down with John ! ha. 
Shall I be known ? is my disguise 
perfect ? 

Sheriff. Perfect — who should know 
you for Prince John, so that you keep 
the cowl down and speak not ? 

{^Shouts from the banquet-room. 

Prince John. Thou and I will still 
these revelries presently. 

[Shouts, ' Long live King Richard ! ' 
I come here to see this daughter of Sir 
Richard of the Lea and if her beauties 
answer their report. If so — 



Sheriff. If so — 

[Skotits, ' Down with John ! ' 
Prince John. You hear ! 
Sheriff. Yes, my lord, fear not. I 
will answer for you. 

Efiter Little John, Scarlet, Much, 
etc. , from the banquet singing a snatch 
of the Drinking Song 

Little John. I am a silent man my- 
self, and all the more wonder at our 
Earl. What a wealth of words — O 
Lord, I will live and die for King 
Richard — not so much for the cause as 
for the Earl. O Lord, I am easily led 
by words, but I think the Earl hath 
right. Scarlet, hath not the Earl right ? 
What makes thee so down in the mouth ? 

Scarlet. I doubt not, I doubt not, 
and though I be down in the mouth, I 
will swear by the head of the Earl. 

Little John. Thou Much, miller's son, 
hath not the Earl right ? 

Much. More water goes by the mill 
than the miller wots of, and more goes 
to make right than I know of, but for all 
that I will swear the Earl hath right. 
But they are coming hither for the 
dance — 

Enter Friar Tuck 

be they not, Friar Tuck ? Thou art the 
Earl's confessor and shouldst know. 

Tuck. Ay, ay, and but that I am a 
man of weight, and the weight of the 
church to boot on my shoulders, I would 
dance too. Fa, la, la, fa, la, la. 

{Capering. 

Much. But doth not the weight of 
the flesh at odd times overbalance the 
weight of the church, ha friar ? 

Tuck. Homo sum. I love my 
dinner — but I can fast, I can fast ; and 
as to other frailties of the flesh — out upon 
thee ! Homo sum, sed virgo sum, I am 
a virgin, my masters, I am a virgin. 

Mtich. And a virgin, my masters, 
three yards about the waist is like to 
remain a virgin, for who could embrace 
such an armful of joy ? 



SCENE II 



THE FORESTERS 



809 



Tuck. Knave, there is a lot of wild 
fellows in Sherwood Forest who hold by 
King Richard. If ever I meet thee 
there, I will break thy sconce with my 
quarterstaff. 

Enter from the banqtieting-hall 
Sir Richard Lea, Robin Hood, etc. 
Robin. My guests and friends. Sir 

Richard, all of you 
\Vlio deign to honour this my thirtieth 

year, 
And some of you were prophets that I 

might be 
Now that the sun our King is gone, the 

light 
Of these dark hours ; but this new moon, 

I fear, 
Is darkness. Nay, this may be the last 

time 
When I shall hold my birthday in this 

hall : 
I may be outlaw'd, I have heard a 

rumour. 
All. God forbid ! 
Robin. Nay, but we have no news of 

Richard yet. 
And ye did wrong in crying ' Down with 

John ' ; 
For be he dead, then John may be our 

King. 
All. God forbid ! 
Robin. Ay God forbid, 
But if it be so we must bear with John. 
The man is able enough — no lack of wit, 
And apt at arms and shrewd in policy. 
Courteous enough too when he wills ; 

and yet 
I hate him for his want of chivalry. 
He that can pluck the flower of maiden- 
hood 
From off the stalk and trample it in the 

mire, 
And boast that he hath trampled it. I 

hate him, 
I hate the man. I may not hate the 

King 
For aught I know, 
So that our Barons bring his baseness 

under. 



I think they will be mightier than the 
king. S^Dance music. 

Marian enters with other damsels 
Robin. ' The high Heaven guard thee 
from his wantonness. 
Who art the fairest flower of maidenhood 
That ever blossom'd on this English isle. 
Marian. Cloud not thy birthday with 
one fear for me. 
My lord, myself and my good father pray 
Thy thirtieth summer may be thirty-fold 
As happy as any of those that went before. 
Robin. My Lady Marian you can 
make it so 
If you will deign to tread a measure with 
me. 
Marian. Full willingly, my lord. 

\l^hey dance. 
Robin {after dance). My Lady, will 

you answer me a question ? 
Marian. Any that you may ask. 
Robin. A question that every true 
man asks of a woman once in his life. 

Marian. I will not answer it, my 
lord, till King Richard come home 
again. 

Prince John {to Sheriff). How she 

looks up at him, how she holds 

her face ! 

Now if she kiss him, I will have his head. 

Sheriff. Peace, my lord ; the Earl 

and Sir Richard come this way. 

Robin. Must you have these monies 
before the year and the month end ? 

Sir Richard. Or I forfeit my land to 
the Abbot. I must pass overseas to one 
that I trust will help me. 

Robin. Leaving your fair Marian 
alone here. 

Sir Richard. Ay, for she hath some- 
what of the lioness in her, and. there be 
men-at-arms to guard her. 

[Robin, Sir Richard, and 
Marian pass on. 
Prince John {to Sherifi). Why that 
will be our opportunity 
When I and thou will rob the nest of her. 
Sheriff. Good Prince, art thou in need 
of any gold ? 



Sio 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT I 



Prince John. Gold? why? not now. 
Sheriff. I would give thee any gold 
So that myself alone might rob the nest. 
Pri^ice John. Well, well then, thou 

shalt rob the nest alone. 
Sheriff. Swear to me by that relic 

on thy neck. 
Prince John. I swear then by this 
relic on my neck — 
No, no, I will not swear by this ; I 

keep it 
For holy vows made to the blessed Saints 
Not pleasures, women's matters. 
Dost thou mistrust me? Am I not thy 

friend ? 
Beware, man, lest thou lose thy faith 

in me. 
I love thee much ; and as I a/// thy 

friend, 
I promise thee to make this Marian 

thine. 
Go now and ask the maid to dance with 

thee. 
And learn from her if she do love this 
Earl. 
Sheriff {advancing toward Marian 
and Robin). Pretty mistress ! 

Robin. What art thou, man ? Sheriff 
of Nottingham ? 

Sheriff. Ay, my lord. I and my 
friend, this monk, were here belated, 
and seeing the hospitable lights in your 
castle, and knowing the fame of your 
hospitality, we ventured in uninvited. 

Robin. You are welcome, though I 
fear you be of those who hold more by 
John than Richard. 

Sheriff. True, for through John I 
had my- sheriffship. I am John's till 
Richard come back again, and then I 
am Richard's. Pretty mistress, will you 
dance ? [ They dance. 

Robin {talking to Prince John). 
What monk of what convent art thou ? 
Why wearest thou thy cowl to hide thy 
face ? 

[Prince John shakes his head. 
Is he deaf, or dumb, or daft, or drunk 
belike ? 

[Prince John shakes his head. 



Why comest thou like a death's head at 
my feast ? 
[Prince John points to the Sheriff, 
who is dancing with Marian. 
Is he thy mouthpiece, thine interpreter ? 
[Prince John nods. 
Sheriff {to Marian as they pass). Be- 
ware of John ! 
Marian. I hate him. 

Sheriff. Would you cast 

An eye of favour on me, I would pay 
My brother all his debt and save the 
land. 
Marian. I cannot answer thee till 

Richard come. 
Sheriff. And when he comes ? 
Marian. Well, you must wait till 

then. 
Little John {dancing with Kate). Is 
it made up ? Will you kiss me ? 

Kate. You shall give me the first 
kiss. 

Little John. There {kisses he}'). Now 
then. 

Kate. You shall wait for mine till 
Sir Richard has paid the Abbot. 

{They pass on. 

[ The Sheriff leaves Marian with her 

father and comes toivard Robin. 

Robin {to Sheriff, Prince John standing 

by). Sheriff, thy friend, this monk, is 

but a statue. 

Sheriff. Pardon him, my lord : he 
is a holy Palmer, bounden by a vow not 
to show his face, nor to speak word to 
anyone, till he join King Richard in the 
Holy Land. 

Robin. Going to the Holy Land to 
Richard ! Give me thy hand and tell 

him Why, what a cold grasp is 

thine — as if thou didst repent thy courtesy 
even in the doing it. That is no true 
man's hand. I hate hidden faces. 

Sheriff. Pardon him again, I pray 
you ; but the twilight of the coming day 
already glimmers in the east. We thank 
you, and farewell. 

Robin. Farewell, farewell. I hate 
hidden faces. 

\Exennt Prince John a7id Sheriff. 



SCENE III 



THE FORESTERS 



8ii 



Sir Richard {corning forward with 


Thereafter. Will you have it? Will 


Maid Marian). How close the 


you wear it ? 


Sherifif peer'd into thine eyes ! 


Marian. Ay, noble Earl, and never 


What did he say to thee ? 


part with it. 


Marian. Bade me beware 


Sir Richard Lea [corning up). Not 


Of John : what maid but would beware 


till she clean forget thee, noble 


of John ? 


Earl. 


Sir Richard. What else ? 


Marian. Forget him — never — by 


Marian. I care not what he said. 


this Holy Cross 


Sir Richard. What else ? 


Which good King Richard gave me 


Marian. That if I cast an eye of 


when a child — 


favour on him, 


Never ! 


Himself would pay this mortgage to his 


Not while the swallow skims along the 


brother, 


ground. 


And save the land. 


And while the lark flies up and touches 


Sir Richard. Did he say so, the 


heaven ! 


Sheriff? 


Not while the smoke floats from the 


Robin. I fear this Abbot is a heart 


cottage roof. 


of flint. 


And the white cloud is roll'd along the 


Hard as the stones of his abbey. 


sky! 


O good Sir Richard, 


Not while the rivulet babbles by the 


I am sorry my exchequer runs so low 


door. 


I cannot help you in this exigency ; 


And the great breaker beats upon the 


F'or though my men and I flash out at 


beach ! 


times 


Never — 


Of festival like burnish'd summer-flies, 


Till Nature, high and low, and great 


We make but one hour's buzz, are only 


and small 


like 


Forgets herself, and all her loves and 


The rainbow of a momentary sun. 


hates 


I am mortgaged as thyself. 


Sink again into chaos. 


Sir Richard. Ay ! I warrant thee — 


Sir Richard Lea. Away ! away ! 


thou canst not be sorrier than I am. 


\Exeu7it to music. 


Come away, daughter. 




Robin. Farewell, Sir Richard ; fare- 




well, sweet Marian. 


SCENE HI.— Same as Scene H 


Marian. Till better times. 




Robin. But if the better times should 


Robin arid his men 


never come ? 




Marian. Then I shall be no worse. 


Robin. All gone ! — my ring — I am 


Robin. And if the worst time come ? 


happy — should be happy. 


Marian. Why then I will be better 


She took my ring. I trust she loves me 


than the time. 


—yet 


Robin. This ring my mother gave 


I heard this Sheriff tell her he would 


me : it was her own 


pay ,^ ^. 


Betrothal ring. She pray'd me when I 


The mortgage if she favour d him. 1 


loved 


fear 


A maid with all my heart to pass it 


Not her, the father's power upon her. 


down 


p>iends, [to his men] 


A finger of that hand which should be 


I am only merry for an hour or two 


mine 


Upon a birthday : if this life of ours 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT I 



Be a good glad thing, why should we 

make us merry 
Because a year of it is gone ? but Hope 
Smiles from the threshold of the year to 

come 
Whispering ' it will be happier,' and old 

faces 
Press round us, and warm hands close 

with warm hands, 
And thro' the blood the wine leaps to 

the brain 
Like April sap to the topmost tree, that 

shoots 
New buds to heaven, whereon the 

throstle rock'd 
Sings a new song to the new year — and 

you 
Strike up a song, my friends, and then 

to bed. 
Little John. What will you have, my 

lord? 
Robin. 'To sleep ! to sleep!' 

Little John. There is a touch of sad- 
ness in it, my lord. 
But ill befitting such a festal day. 

Robin. I have a touch of sadness in 

myself. 
Sing. 

SONG 
To sleep ! to sleep ! The long bright day is done, 
And darkness rises from the fallen sun. 
To sleep ! to sleep ! 

Whate'er thy joys, they vanish with the day ; 
Whate'er thy griefs, in sleep they fade away. 
To sleep ! to sleep ! 

Sleep, mournful heart, and let the past be past ! 
Sleep, happy soul ! all life will sleep at last. 
To sleep ! to sleep ! 

\A trumpet blotuji at the gates. 
Robin. Who breaks the stillness of 

the morning thus ? 
Little John {going out and retw'ning). 
It is a royal messenger, my lord : 
I trust he brings us news of the King's 
coming. 

Enter a Pursuivant who reads 

O yes, O yes, O yes ! In the name 

of the Regent. Thou, Robin Hood Earl 

of Huntingdon, art attainted and hast 

lost thine earldom of Huntingdon. 



Moreover thou art dispossessed of all 
thy lands, goods, and chattels ; and by 
virtue of this writ, whereas Robin Hood 
Earl of Huntingdon by force and arms 
hath trespassed against the king in 
divers manners, therefore by the judgment 
of the officers of the said lord king, 
according to the law and custom of the 
kingdom of England Robin Plood Earl 
of Huntingdon is outlawed and banished. 
Robin. I have shelter'd some that 
broke the forest laws. 
This is irregular and the work of John. 
[' Irregular, irregular ! [ttwiult] 
Down with him, tear his coat 
from his back.' 
Messenger. Ho there ! ho there, the 
Sheriffs men without ! 

Robin. Nay, let them be, man, let 
them be. We yield. 
How should we cope with John ? The 

London folkmote 
Has made him all but king, and he hath 

seized 
On half the royal castles. Let him 

alone ! {to his men) 
A worthy messenger ! how should he | 

help it ? 
Shall we too work injustice ? what, thou 

shakest ! 
Here, here — a cup of wine — drink and 
begone ! 

{Exit Messenger. 
We will away in four-and-twenty hours, 
But shall we leave our England ? 

Tuck. Robin, Earl- 

Robin. Let be the Earl. Henceforth 
I am no more 
Than plain man to plain man. 

Tuck. Well, then, plain man, 

There be good fellows there in merry 

Sherwood 

That hold by Richard, tho' they kill his 
deer. 

Robin. In Sherwood Forest. I have 
heard of them. 
Have they no leader ? 

Tuck. Each man for his own. 

Be thou their leader and they will all of 
them 



SCENE III 



THE FORESTERS 



813 



Swarm to thy voice like bees to the brass 

pan. 
Robin. They hold by Richard — the 

wild wood ! to cast 
All threadbare household habit, mix 

with all 
The lusty life of wood and underwood, 
Hawk, buzzard, jay, the mavis and the 

merle, 
The tawny squirrel vaulting thro' the 

boughs. 
The deer, the highback'd polecat, the 

wild boar, 
The burrowing badger — By St. Nicholas 
I have a sudden passion for the wild 

wood — 
We should be free as air in the wild 

wood — 
What say you ? shall we go ? Your 

hands, your hands ! 

\Gwes his hand to each. 
You, Scarlet, you are always moody 

here. 
Scarlet. 'Tis for no lack of love to 

you, my lord, 
But lack of happiness in a blatant wife. 
She broke my head on Tuesday with a 

dish. 
I would have thwack'd the woman, but 

I did not, 
Because thou sayest such fine things of 

women. 
But I shall have to thwack her if I stay. 
Robin. Would it be better for thee 

in the wood ? 
Scarlet. Ay, so she did not follow 

me to the wood. 
Robin. Then, Scarlet, thou at least 

wilt go with me. 
Thou, Much, the miller's son, I knew 

thy father : 
He was a manly man, as thou art. Much, 
And gray before his time as thou art, 

Much. 
Much. It is the trick of the famil)-, 

my lord. 
There was a song he made to the turning 

wheel — 
Robin. ' Turn ! turn ! ' but I forget 

it. 



Much. I can sing it. 

Robin. Not now, good Much ! And 
thou, dear Little John, 
Who hast that worship for me which 

Heaven knows 
I ill deserve — you love me, all of you. 
But I am outlaw'd, and if caught, I die. 
Your hands again. All thanks for all 

your service ; 
But if you follow me, you may die with 
me. 
All. We will live and die with thee, 
we will live and die with thee. 



ACT II 

THE FLIGHT OF MARIAN 

scene i. a broad forest glade, 

woodman's hut at one side with 
half-door. foresters are look- 
ing to their bows and arrows, 
or polishing their swords 

Foresters sing (as they disperse to their 
work) 

There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no hearts like English hearts 

Such hearts of oak as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no men like Englishmen 

So tall and bold as they be. 

(Full chorus.) And these will strike for England 
And man and maid be free 
To foil and spoil the tyrant 
Beneath the greenwood tree. 

There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no wives like English wives 

So fair and chaste as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no maids like English maids 

So beautiful as they be. 

(Full chorus.) And these shall wed with freemen, 
And all their sons be free, 
To sing the songs of England 
Beneath the greenwood tree. 



8i4 



THE FORESTERS 



Robin {alone). My lonely hour ! 
The king of day hath stept from off his 

throne, 
Flung by the golden mantle of the cloud, 
And sets, a naked fire. The King of 

England 
Perchance this day may sink as gloriously, 
Red with his own and enemy's blood — 

but no ! 
We hear he is in prison. It is my 

birthday. 
I have reign'd one year in the wild wood. 

My mother. 
For whose sake, and the blessed Queen 

of Heaven, 
I reverence all women, bad me, dying, 
Whene'er this day should come about, 

to carve 
One lone hour from it, so to meditate 
Upon my greater nearness to the birthday 
Of the after-life, when all the sheeted dead 
Are shaken from their stillness in the 

grave 
By the last trumpet. 

Am I worse or better ? 
I am outlaw'd. I am none the worse 

for that. 
I held for Richard, and I hated John. 
I am a thief, ay, and a king of thieves. 
Ay ! but we rob the robber, wrong the 

wronger. 
And what we wring from them we give 

the poor. 
I am none the worse for that, and all 

the better 
For this free forest-life, for while I sat 
Among my thralls in my baronial hall 
The groining hid the heavens ; but since 

I breathed, 
A houseless head beneath the sun and 

stars. 
The soul of the woods hath stricken thro' 

my blood. 
The love of freedom, the desire of God, 
The hope of larger life hereafter, more 
Tenfold than under roof. 

{^Horn blown. 

True, were I taken 

They would prick out my sight. A price 

is set 



On this poor head ; but I believe there 
lives 

No man who truly loves and truly rules 

His following, but can keep his followers 
true. 

I am one with mine. Traitors are 
rarely bred 

Save under traitor kings. Our vice- 
king John, 

True king of vice — true play on words — 
our John 

By his Norman arrogance and dissolute- 
ness, 

Hath made me king of all the discontent 

Of England up thro' all the forest land 

North to the Tyne : being outlaw'd in a 
land 

Where law lies dead, we make ourselves 
the law. 

Why break you thus upon my lonely 
hour ? 

Enter Little John and Kate 
Little John. I found this white doe 

wandering thro' the wood. 
Not thine, but mine. I have shot her 

thro' the heart. 
Kate. He lies, my lord. I have shot 

him thro' the heart. 
Robin. My God, thou art the very 

woman who waits 
On my dear Marian. Tell me, tell me 

of her. 
Thou comest a very angel out of heaven. 
Where is she ? and how fares she ? 

Kate. O my good lord, 

I am but an angel by reflected light. 
Your heaven is vacant of your angel. 

John — 
Shame on him ! — 
Stole on her, she was walking in the 

garden, 
And after some slight speech about the 

Sherifif 
He caught her round the waist, whereon 

she struck him. 
And fled into the castle. She and Sir 

Richard 
Have past away, I know not where ; 

and I 



THE FORESTERS 



815 



Was left alone, and knowing as 1 did 
That I had shot him thro' the heart, I 

came 
To eat him up and make an end of him. 
Little John. In kisses ? 
Kate. You, how dare you mention 
kisses ? 
But I am weary pacing thro' the wood. 
Show me some cave or cabin where I 
may rest. 
Robin. Go with him. I will talk 
with thee anon. 
{Exeujtt Little John a7id Kate. 
She struck him, my brave Marian, struck 

the Prince, 
The serpent that had crept into the 

garden 
And coil'd himself about her sacred 

waist. 
I think I should have stricken him to 

the death. 
He never will forgive her. 

O the Sheriff 
! Would pay this cursed mortgage to his 
i brother 

I If Marian would marry him ; and the son 
' Is most like dead — if so the land may 
come 
To Marian, and they rate the land five- 
fold 
The worth of the mortgage, and who 

marries her 
Marries the land. Most honourable 

Sheriff ! 
{Passionately) Gone, and it may be gone 
for evermore ! 
[ O would that I could see her for a 
! moment 

) Glide like a light across these woodland 
I ways ! 

! Tho' in one moment she should glance 
away, 
I should be happier for it all the year. 
O would she moved beside me like my 

shadow ! 
O would she stood before me as my 

queen. 
To make this Sherwood Eden o'er again, 
And these rough oaks the palms of 
, Paradise ! 



Ah ! but who be those three yonder 
with bows? — not of my band — the 
Sheriff, and by heaven. Prince John 
himself and one of those mercenaries 
that suck the blood of England. My 
people are all scattered I know not 
where. Have they come for me ? Here 
is the witch's hut. The fool-people call 
her a witch — a good witch to me ! I 
will shelter here. 

[Knocks at the door of the hzit. 

Old Woman comes otit 

Old Woman {kisses his hand). Ah 
dear Robin ! ah noble captain, friend ol 
the poor ! 

Robin. I am chased by my foes. I 
have forgotten my horn that calls my 
men together. Disguise me — thy gown 
and thy coif 

Old lVo?nan. Come in, come in ; I 
would give my life for thee, for when 
the Sheriff had taken all our goods for 
the King without paying, our horse and 
our little cart 

Robin. Quick, good mother, quick ! 

Old Woman. Ay, ay, gown, coif, and 
petticoat, and the old woman's blessing 
with them to the last fringe. 

{They go in. 

Enter Prince John, Sheriff of 
Nottingham, and Mercenary 

Prince John. Did we not hear the 
two would pass this way ? 
They must have past. Here is a wood- 
man's hut. 

Mercenary. Take heed, take heed ! in 
Nottingham they say 
There bides a foul witch somewhere 
hereabout. 

Sheriff. Not in this hut I take it, 

Prince John. Why not here ? 

Sheriff. I saw a man go in, my lord. 

Prince John. Not two ? 

Sheriff. No, my lord, one. 

Prince John. Make for the cottage 
then ! 



8i6 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT II 



Interior of the hut 
Robin disguised as old woman 

Prince John [without). Knock again ! 
knock again ! 

Robin [to Old Woman). Get thee 
into the closet there, and make a ghostly 
wail ever and anon to scare 'em. 

Old JVo/nan. I will, I will, good 
Robin. {Goes into closet. 

Prince John {zvithout). Open, open, 
or I will drive the door from the door- 
post. 

Robin {opens door). Come in, come in. 

Prince John. Why did ye keep us at 
the door so long? 

Robin {curtseying). I was afear'd it 
was the ghost, your worship. 

PHnce John. Ghost ! did one in 
white pass ? 

Robin {curtseying). No, your worship. 

Prince John. Did two knights pass? 

Robin {curtseying). No, your worship. 

Sheriff. I fear me we have lost our 
/abour, then. 

Prince John. Except this old hag 
have been bribed to lie. 

Robin. We old hags should be bribed 
to speak truth, for, God help us, we lie 
by nature. 

Prince John. There was a man just 
now that enter'd here ? 

Robin. There is but one old woman 
in the hut. 

[Old Woman yells. 

Robin. I crave your worship's pardon. 
There is yet another old woman. She 
was murdered here a hundred year ago, 
and whenever a murder is to be done 
again she yells out i' this way — so they 
say, your worship. 

Mercenary. Now, if I hadn't a sprig 
o' wickentree sewn into my dress, I 
should run. 

Prince John. Tut ! tut ! the scream 
of some wild woodland thing. 
How came we to be parted from our 

men? 
We shouted, and they shouted, as I 
thought, 



But shout and echo play'd into each 

other 
So hollowly we knew not which was 
which. 

Robin. The wood is full of echoes, 
owls, elfs, ouphes, oafs, ghosts o' the mist, 
wills-o'-the-wisp ; only they that be bred 
in it can find their way a-nights in it. 

Prince John. I am footsore and 
famish'd therewithal. 
Is there aught there ? 

[Pointing to cupboard. 

Robin. Naught for the likes o' you. 

Prince John. Speak straight out, 
crookback. 

Robin. Sour milk and black bread. 

Prince John. Well, set them forth. 
I could eat anything. 
[He sets out a table with black bread. 

This is mere marble. Old hag, how 
should thy one tooth drill thro' this ? 

Robin. Nay, by St. Gemini, I ha' 
two ; and since the Sheriff left me 
naught but an empty belly, they can 
meet upon anything thro' a millstone. 
You gentles that live upo' manchet-bread 
and marchpane, what should you know 
o' the food o' the poor ? Look you here, 
before you can eat it you must hack it 
with a hatchet, break it all to pieces, as 
you break the poor, as you would hack 
at Robin Hood if you could light upon 
him {hacks it arid Jiings two pieces). 
There's for you, and there's for you — 
and the old woman's welcome. 

Prince John. The old wretch is mad, 
and her bread is beyond me : and the 
milk — faugh ! Hast thou anything to 
sweeten this ? 

Robin. Here's a pot o' wild honey 
from an old oak, saving your sweet 
reverences. 

Sheriff. Thou hast a cow then, hast 
thou ? 

Robin. Ay, for when the Sheriff took 
my little horse for the King without 
paying for it 

Sheriff. How hadst thou then the 
means to buy a cow ? 

Robin. Eh, I would ha' given my 



SCENE I 



THE FORESTERS 



817 



whole body to the King had he asked 
for it, like the woman at Acre when the 
Turk shot her as she was helping to 
build the mound against the city. I ha' 
served the King living, says she, and let 
me serve him dead, says she ; let me go 
to make the mound : bury me in the 
mound, says the woman. 

Sheriff. Ay, but the cow ? 

Robin. She was given me. 

Sheriff. By whom ? 

Robin. By a thief. 

Sheriff. Who, woman, who ? 

Robin (sings). 

He was a forester good ; 

He was the cock o' the walk ; 

He was the king o' the wood. 

Your worship may find another rhyme 
if you care to drag your brains for such a 
minnow. 

Sheriff. That cow was mine. I have 
lost a cow from my meadow. Robin 
Hood was it ? I thought as much. He 
will come to the gibbet at last. 

[ Old Woman ye/is. 

Mercenary. O sweet sir, talk not of 
cows. You anger the spirit. 

Prince John. Anger the scritch-owl. 

Mercenary. But, my lord, the scritch- 
owl bodes death, my lord. 

Robin. I beseech you all to speak 
lower. Robin may be hard by wi' three- 
score of his men. He often looks in 
here by the moonshine. Beware of 
Robin. [Old Woman jj'i?//?. 

Mercenary. Ay, do you hear ? There 
may be murder done. 

Sheriff. Have you not finished, my 
lord? 

Robin. Thou hast crost him in love, 
and I have heard him swear he will be 
even wi' thee. [Old Woman yells. 

Me7'cenary. Now is my heart so 
down in my heels that if I stay, I can't 
run. 

Sheriff. Shall we not go ? 

Robin. And, old hag tho' I be, I 
lean spell the hand. Give me thine. 
Ay, ay, the line o' life is marked enow ; 
but look, there is a cross line o' sudden 



death. I pray thee go, go, for tho' thou 
wouldst bar me fro' the milk o' my cow, 
I wouldn't have thy blood on my hearth. 

Prifice Johfi. Why do you listen, 
man, to the old fool ? 

Sheriff. I will give thee a silver 
penny if thou wilt show us the way back 
to Nottingham. 

Robin (with a very lotv curtsey). All 
the sweet saints bless your worship for 
your alms to the old w-oman ! but make 
haste then, and be silent in the wood. 
Follow me. {Takes his bow. 

( They come out of the hut and close the 
door carefully) 

Outside htct 

Robin. Softly ! softly ! there may be 
a thief in every bush. 

Prince John. How should this old 
lamester guide us ? Where is thy good- 
man? 

Robin. The saints were so kind to 
both on us that he was dead before he 
was born. 

Prince John. Half-witted and a witch 
to boot ! Mislead us, and I will have 
thy life ! and what doest thou with that 
who art more bow-bent than the very bow 
thou carriest? 

Robin. I keep it to kill nightingales. 

Prince John. Nightingales ! 
• Robin. You see, they are so fond o' 
their own voices that I cannot sleep o' 
nights by cause on 'em. 

Prince John. True soul of the Saxon 
churl for whom song has no charm. 

Robin. Then I roast 'em, for I have 
nought else to live on (whines). O your 
honour, I pray you too to give me an 
alms. (To Prince John.) 

Sheriff. This is no bow to hit nightin- 
gales ; this is a true woodman's bow of 
the best yew -wood to slay the deer. 
Look, my lord, there goes one in the 
moonlight. Shoot ! 

Prince John (shoots). Missed ! There 
goes another. Shoot, Sheriff ! 

Sheriff (shoots). Missed ! 

3G 



8i8 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT II 



Robin. And here comes another. 
Why, an old woman can shoot closer 
than you two. 

Prince John. Shoot then, and if thou 
miss I will fasten thee to thine own door- 
post and make thine old carcase a target 
for us three. 

Robin {raises himself tipright, shoots, 
and hits). Hit ! Did I not tell you an 
old woman could shoot better ? 

Prince John. Thou standest straight. 
Thou speakest manlike. Thou art no 
old woman — thou art disguised — thou 
art one of the thieves. 

\_Makes a clutch at the gown, which 
comes in pieces and falls, showing 
Robin in his forester' s d^-ess. 

Sheriff. It is the very captain of the 
thieves ! 

Prince John. We have him at last ; 
we have him at advantage. Strike, 
Sheriff ! Strike, mercenary ! 

\They draw swords and attack him ; 
he defends himself with his. 

Enter Little John 
Little John. I have lodged my pretty 

Katekin in her bower. 
How now ? Clashing of swords — 
three upon one, and that one our Robin ! 
Rogues, have you no manhood ? 

{Draws and defends Robin. 

Enter Sir Richard Lea {di-aws 
his sword) 
Sir Richard Lea. Old as I am, I 
will not brook to see 
Three upon two. 

[Maid Marian in the armour of a Red- 
cross Knight follows, halftmsheath - 
ing her sword and half-seen. 
Back ! back ! I charge thee, back ! 
Is this a game for thee to play at ? Away. 
{She reti?-es to the fringe of the copse. 
He fights on Robin's side. The 
other three are beaten off and 
exeunt. 

Enter Friar Tuck 
Friar Tuck. I am too late then with 
my quarter staff ! 



Robin. Quick, friar, follow them : 
See whether there be more of 'em in the 

wood. 
Friar Tuck. On the gallop, on the 
gallop, Robin, like a deer from a dog, or 
a colt from a gad-fly, or a stump-tailed 
ox in May-time, or the cow that jumped 
over the moon. {Exit. 

Robin. Nay, nay, but softly, lest they 

spy thee, friar ! 
{To Sir Richard Lea who reels. 
Take thou mine arm. Who art thou, 

gallant knight ? 
Sir Richard. Robin, I am Sir Richard 

of the Lea. 
Who be those three that I have fought 

withal ? 
Robin. Prince John, the Sheriff, and 

a mercenary. 
Sir Richard. Prince John again. 

We are flying from this John. 
The Sheriff — I am grieved it was the 

Sheriff; 
For, Robin, he must be my son-in-law. 
Thou art an outlaw, and couldst never 

pay 
The mortgage on my land. Thou wilt 

not see 
My Marian more. So — so — I have pre- 
sumed 
Beyond my strength. Give me a draught 

of wine. 

[Marian comes forward. 
This is my son but late escaped from 

prison, 
For whom I ran into my debt to the 

Abbot, 
Two thousand marks in gold. I have 

paid him half. 
That other thousand — shall I ever pay it ? 
A draught of wine. 

Robi)i. Our cellar is hard by. 

Take him, good Little John, and give 

him wine. 
{Exit Sir Richard leaning on Little John. 
A brave old fellow but he angers me. 
[ To Maid Marian who is following her 

father. 
Young Walter, nay, I pray thee, stay a 

moment. 



SCENE I 



THE FORESTERS 



819 



Marian. A moment for some matter 
of no moment ! 
Well — take and use your moment, while 
you may. 
Robin. Thou art her brother, and her 
voice is thine, 
Her face is thine, and if thou be as gentle 
Give me some news of my sweet Marian. 
Where is she ? 

Marian. Thy sweet Marian ? I 
believe 
She came with me into the forest here. 
Robin. She follow'd thee into the 

forest here ? 
Marian. Nay — that, my friend, I 

am sure I did not say. 
Robin. Thou blowest hot and cold. 

Where is she then ? 
Marian. Is she not here with thee ? 
Robin. Would God she were ! 

Marian. If not with thee I know not 
where she is. 
She may have lighted on your fairies here. 
And now be skipping in their fairy-rings. 
And capering hand in hand with Oberon. 
Robin. Peace ! 

Marian. Or learning witchcraft of 
your woodland witch. 
And how to charm and waste the hearts 
of men. 
Robin. That is not brother-like. 
Marian {pointing to the sky). Or 
there perchance 
Up yonder with the man i' the moon. 
Robin. No more ! 

Maria?!. Or haply fallen a victim to 

the wolf. 
Robin. Tut ! be there wolves in 

Sherwood ? 
Marian. The wolf, John ! 

Robin. Curse him ! but thou art 
mocking me. Thou art 
Her brother — I forgive thee. Come be 

thou 
My brother too. She loves me. 

Marian. Doth she so ? 

Robiti. Do you doubt me when I say 

she loves me, man ? 
Marian. No, but my father will not 
lose his land, 



Rather than that would wed her with the 
Sheriff. 
Robin. Thou hold'st with him ? 
Marian. Yes, in some sort I do. 

He is old and almost mad to keep the 
land. 
Robin. Thou hold'st with him ? 
Ma7-ian. I tell thee, in some sort. 

Robin {angrily). Sort ! sort ! what 
sort ? what sort of man art thou 
For land, not love ? Thou wilt inherit 

the land. 
And so wouldst sell thy sister to the 

Sheriff, 
O thou unworthy brother of my dear 

]\Iarian ! 
And now, I do bethink me, thou wast by 
And never drewest sword to help the old 

man 
When he was fighting. 

Marian. There were three to three. 
Robin. Thou shouldst have ta'en his 

place, and fought for him. 
Ma7'ian. He did it so well there was 

no call for me. 
Robin. My God ! 
That such a brother — she marry the 

Sheriff ! 
Come now, I fain would have a bout 

with thee. 
It is but pastime — nay, I will not harm 

thee. 
Draw ! 

Marian. Earl, I would fight with 

any man but thee. 
Robin. Ay, ay, because I have a 

name for prowess. 
Marian. It is not that. 
Robin. That ! I believe thou fell'st 
into the hands 
Of these same Moors thro' nature's base- 
ness, criedst 
' I yield ' almost before the thing was 

ask'd. 
And thro' thy lack of manhood hast 

betray'd 
Thy father to the losing of his land. 
Come, boy ! 'tis but to see if thou canst 

fence. 
Draw ! \^Dra7vs, 



820 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT II 



Marian. No, Sir Earl, I will not 

fight to-day. 
Robin. To-morrow then ? 
Marian. Well, I will fight to- 

morrow. 
Robi}i. Give me thy glove upon it. 
Marian [pulls off her glove and gives 

it to him). There ! 

Robin. O God ! 

What sparkles in the moonlight on thy 

hand ? [ Takes her hand. 

tn that great heat to wed her to the 

Sheriff 
Thou hast robb'd my girl of her be- 
trothal ring. 
Marian. No, no ! 
Robin. What ! do I not know- 

mine own ring? 
Marian. I keep it for her. 
Robin. Nay, she swore it never 

Should leave her finger. Give it me, 

by heaven, 
Or I will force it from thee. 

Marian. O Robin, Robin ! 

Robin. O my dear Marian, 
Is it thou ? is it thou ? I fall before 

thee, clasp 
Thy knees. I am ashamed. Thou 

shalt not marry 
The Sheriff, but abide with me who love 
thee. 
\She moves from him, the moonlight 
falls tipon her. 
O look ! before the shadow of these dark 

oaks 
Thou seem'st a saintly splendour out from 

heaven. 
Clothed with the mystic silver of her 

moon. 
Speak but one word not only of forgive- 
ness, 
But to show thou art mortal. 

Marian. Mortal enough, 

If love for thee be mortal. Lovers 

hold 
True love immortal. Robin, tho' I love 

thee, 
We cannot come together in this world. 
Not mortal ! after death, if after 
death 



Robin {sp7'inging up). Life, life. I 

know not death. Why do you 

vex me 
With raven -croaks of death and after 

death ? 
Maria7t. And I and he are passing 

overseas : 
He has a friend there will advance the 

monies, 
So now the forest lawns are all as 

bright 
As ways to heaven, I pray thee give us 

guides 
To lead us thro' the windings of the 

wood. 
Robin. Must it be so ? If it were 

so, myself 
Would guide you thro' the forest to the 

sea. 
But go not yet, stay with us, and when 

thy brother 

Marian. Robin, I ever held that 

saying false 
That Love is bhnd, but thou hast proven 

it true. 
Why — even your woodland squirrel sees 

the nut 
Behind the shell, and thee however 

mask'd 
I should have known. But thou — to 

dream that he 
My brother, my dear Walter — now, 

perhaps, 
Fetter'd and lash'd, a galley-slave, or 

closed 
For ever in a Moorish tower, or wreckt 
And dead beneath the midland ocean, 

he 
As gentle as he's brave — that such as he 
Would wrest from me the precious ring 

I promised 
Never to part with — No, not he, nor 

any. 
I would have battled for it to the death. 
\In her excitement she draws 
her sword. 
See, thou hast wrong'd my brother and 

myself. 
Robitt [kneeling). See then, I kneel 

once more to be forgiven. 



SCENE II 



THE FORESTERS 



821 



Enter Scarlet, Much, several of the 
Foresters, rushing on 

Scarlet. Look ! look ! he kneels ! he 

has anger'd the foul witch, 
Who melts a waxen image by the fire, 
And drains the heart and marrow from 

a man. 
Much. Our Robin beaten, pleading 

for his life ! 
Seize on the knight ! wrench his sword 

from him ! 

[ They all rush on Marian. 
Robin [springing up and waving his 

hand). Back ! 

Back all of you ! this is Maid Marian 
Flying from John — disguised. 

Men. Maid Marian ? she ? 

Scarlet. Captain, we saw thee cower- 
ing to a knight 
And thought thou wert bewitch'd. 

Mariati. You dared to dream 

That our great Earl, the bravest English 

heart 
Since Hereward the Wake, would cower 

to any 
Of mortal build. Weak natures that 

impute 
Themselves to their unlikes, and their 

own want 
Of manhood to their leader ! he would 

break, 
Far as he might, the power of John — 

but you — 
What rightful cause could grow to such 

a heat 
As burns a wrong to ashes, if the followers 
Of him, who heads the movement, held 

him craven ? 
Robin — I know not, can I trust myself 
With your brave band ? in some of these 

may lodge 
That baseness which for fear or monies, 

might 
Betray me to the wild Prince. 

Robin. No, love, no ! 

Not any of these, I swear. 

Men. No, no, we swear. 



SCENE II. —Another Glade in 
THE Forest 

Robin and Marian passing 

Enter Forester 

Forester. Knight, your good father 
had his draught of wine 
And then he swoon'd away. He had 

been hurt, 
And bled beneath his armour. Now he 

cries 
' The land ! the land ! ' Come to him. 
Marian. O my poor father ! 

Robin. Stay with us in this wood, 
till he recover. 
We know all balms and simples of the 

field 
To help a wound. Stay with us here, 

sweet love. 
Maid Marian, till thou wed what man 

thou wilt. 
All here will prize thee, honour, worship 

thee. 
Crown thee with flowers ; and he will 

soon be well : 
All will be well. 

Marian. O lead me to my father ! 

\As they are going out enter Little 
John a?id Kate zvho falls on 
the neck of Marian. 
Kate. No, no, false knight, thou 
canst not hide thyself 
From her who loves thee. 

Little John. What ! 

By all the devils in and out of Hell ! 
Wilt thou embrace thy sweetheart 'fore 

my face ? 
Quick with thy sword ! the yeoman 

braves the knight. 
There ! [strikes her with the fat of his 
sword). 
Marian [laying about her). Are the 
men all mad ? there then, and 
there ! 
A'ate. O hold thy hand ! this is our 

Marian. 
Little John. What ! with this skill 
of fence ! let go mine arm. 



822 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT II 



Robin. Down with thy sword ! She 
is my queen and thine, 
The mistress of the band. 

Marian {sheathing het' sword). A 
maiden now 
Were ill-bested in these dark days of 

John, 
Except she could defend her innocence. 

lead me to my father. 

{Exetcnt Robin and Marian. 
Little John. Speak to me, 

1 am like a boy now going to be whipt ; 
I know I have done amiss, have been a 

fool. 
Speak to me, Kate, and say you pardon 
me ! 
Kate. I never will speak word to 
thee again. 
What? to mistrust the girl you say you 

love 
Is to mistrust your own love for your girl ! 
How should you love if you mistrust your 
love? 
Little John. O Kate, true love and 
jealousy are twins. 
And love is joyful, innocent, beautiful, 
And jealousy is wither'd, sour and ugly : 
Yet are they twins and always go together. 
Kate. Well, well, until they cease to 
go together, 
I am but a stone and a dead stock to 
thee. 
Little John. I thought I saw thee 
clasp and kiss a man 
And it was but a woman. Pardon me. 
ICate. Ay, for I much disdain thee, 
but if ever 
Thou see me clasp and kiss a man indeed, 
I will again be thine, and not till then. 

[Exit. 

Little John. I have been a fool and 

I have lost my Kate. {Exit. 

Re-enter Robin 
Robin. He dozes. I have left her 
watching him. 
She will not marry till her father yield. 
The old man dotes. 

Nay — and she will not marry till Richard 
come, 



And that's at latter Lammas — never 

perhaps. 
Besides, tho' Friar Tuck might make us 

one. 
An outlaw's bride may not be wife in 

law. 
I am weary. [Lying doivn on a bank. 
W^hat's here ? a dead bat in the fairy 

ring- 
Yes, I remember, Scarlet hacking down 
A hollow ash, a bat flew out at him 
In the clear noon, and hobk'd him by 

the hair, 
And he was scared and slew it. My 

men say 
The fairies haunt this glade ; — if one 

could catch 
A glimpse of them and of their fairy 

Queen — 
Have our loud pastimes driven them all 

away? 
I never saw them : yet I could believe 
There came some evil fairy at my birth 
And cursed me, as the last heir of my 

race : 
' This boy will never wed the maid he 

loves. 
Nor leave a child behind him ' [yawns). 

Weary — weary 
As tho' a spell were on me {he dreams). 
{The whole stage lights tip, and Jairies 

are seen szuinging on boughs and 

nestling in hollow trunks. 

Titan I A on a hill, Fairies on either 
side of her, the moon above the hill 

First Fairy 
Evil fairy ! do you hear? 
So he said who lieth here. 

Second Faiiy 
We be fairies of the wood. 
We be neither bad nor good. 

First Fairy 
Back and side and hip and rib, 
Nip, nip him for his fib. 

Titania 
Nip him not, but let him snore. 
We must flit for evermore. 



SCENE II 



THE FORESTERS 



823 



First Fairy 
Tit, my queen, must it be so ? 
Wherefore, wherefore should we go ? 

Titania 
I Titania bid you flit, 
And you dare to call me Tit. 

First Fairy 
Tit, for love and brevity, 
Not for love of levity. 

Titania 
Pertest of our flickering mob, 
Wouldst thou call my Oberon Ob ? 

First Fairy 
Nay, an please your Elfin Grace, 
Never Oh before his face. 

Titania 
Fairy realm is breaking down 
When the fairy slights the crown. 

First Faiiy 
No, by wisp and glowworm, no. 
Only wherefore should we go ? 

Titania 
We must fly from Robin Hood 
And this new queen of the wood. 

First Fairy 
True, she is a goodly thing. 
Jealousy, jealousy of the king. 

Titania 
Nay, for Oberon fled away 
Twenty thousand leagues to-day. 

Chorus 
Look, there comes a deputation 
From our finikin fairy nation. 

Enter several Fairies 
Third Fairy 
Crush'd my bat whereon I flew ! 
Found him dead and drench'd in dew. 
Queen. 
Fourth Fairy 
Quash'd my frog that used to quack 
When I vaulted on his back, 

Queen. 



Fifth Fairy 
Kill'd the sward where'er they sat, 
Queen. 
Sixth Fairy 
Lusty bracken beaten flat, 

Queen. 
Seventh Fairy 
Honest daisy deadly bruised. 

Queen. 
Eighth Fairy 
Modest maiden lily abused. 

Queen. 
Ninth Fairy 
Beetle's jewel armour crack'd. 

Queen. 
7'enth Fairy 
Reed I rock'd upon broken-back'd. 
Queen. 
Fairies {in chorus) 
We be scared with song and shout. 
Arrows whistle all about. 
All our games be put to rout. 
All our rings be trampled out. 
Lead us thou to some deep glen, 
Far from solid foot of men. 
Never to return again, 

Queen. 
Titania [to First Fairy) 

Elf, with spiteful heart and eye, 
Talk of jealousy ? You see why 
We must leave the wood and fly. 

( To all the Fairies, who sing at intervals 
with Titania) 

Up with you, out of the forest and over 

the hills and away, 
And over this Robin Hood's bay ! 
Up thro' the light of the seas by the 

moon's long-silvering ray ! 
To a land where the fay, 
Not an eye to survey. 
In the night, in the day, 
Can have frolic and pla)'. 
Up with you, all of you, out of it ! hear 

and obey. 
Man, lying here alone, 
Moody creature, 



824 



THE FORESTERS 



Of a nature 

Stronger, sadder than my own, 
Were I human, were I human, 
I could love you like a woman. 
Man, man, 

You shall wed your Marian. 
She is true, and you are true, 
And you love her and she loves you ; 
Both be happy, and adieu for ever and 
for evermore — adieu. 
Robin {half waking). Shall I be 
happy ? Happy vision, stay. 

Titania 
Up with you, all of you, off with you, 
out of it, over the wood and away ! 

Note. — In the stage copy of my play I have had 
this Fairy Scene transferred to the end of the 
Third Act, for the sake of modern dramatic 
effect. 

ACT III 

THE CROWNING OF MARIAN 

SCENE. — Heart of the Forest 

Marian and Kate {in Foresters' green) 

Kate. What makes you seem so cold 

to Robin, lady ? 
Marian. What makes thee think I 

seem so cold to Robin ? 
Kate. You never whisper close as 
lovers do, 
Nor care to leap into each other's arms. 
Marian. There is a fence I cannot 
overleap, 
My father's will. 

Kate. Then you will wed the Sheriff? 

Marian. When heaven falls, I may 

light on such a lark ! 

But who art thou to catechize me — thou 

That hast not made it up with Little 

John! 

Kate. I wait till Little John makes 

up to me. 
Alarian. Why, my good Robin 
fancied me a man, 
And drew his sword upon me, and Little 
John 



Fancied he saw thee clasp and kiss a 

man. 
Kate. Well, if he fancied that / fancy 

a man 
Other than him, he is not the man for 

me. 
Marian. And that would quite tmm^n 

him, heart and soul. 
For both are thine. {Looking up.) 

But listen — overhead — 
Fluting, and piping and luting ' Love, 

love, love ' — 
Those sweet tree-Cupids half-way up in 

heaven. 
The birds — would I were one of 'em ! 

O good Kate — 
If my man-Robin were but a bird-Robin, 
How happily would we lilt among the 

leaves 
' Love, love, love, love ' — what merry 

madness — listen ! 
And let them warm thy heart to Little 

John. 
Look where he comes ! 

Kate. I will not meet him yet, 

I'll watch him from behind the trees, 

but call 
Kate when you will, for I am close at 

hand. 

Kate stands aside and enter Robin, and 
after him at a little distance Little 
John, Much the Miller's son, and 
Scarlet with an oaken chaplet, and 
other Foresters. 

Little John. My lord — Robin — I 
crave pardon — you always seem to me 
my lord — I Little John, he Much the 
miller's son, and he Scarlet, honouring 
all womankind, and more especially my 
lady Marian, do here, in the name of all 
our woodmen, present her with this 
oaken chaplet as Queen of the wood, I 
Little John, he, young Scarlet, and he, 
old Much, and all the rest of us. 

Much. And I, old Much, say as 
much, for being every inch a man I 
honour every inch of a woman. 

Robin. Friend Scarlet, art thou less 
a man than Much ? 



ACT III 



THE FORESTERS 



82s 



Why art thou mute ? Dost thou not 

honour woman ? 
Scarlet. Robin, I do, but I have a 
bad wife. 

Robm. Then let her pass as an ex- 
ception, Scarlet. 
Scarlet. So I would, Robin, if any 
man would accept her. 

Marian {puts on the chaplet). Had I 

a bulrush now in this right hand 
For sceptre, I were like a queen indeed. 
Comrades, I thank you for your loyalty, 
And take and wear this symbol of your 

love ; 
And were my kindly father sound again, 
Could live as happy as the larks in 

heaven. 
And join your feasts and all your forest 

games 
As far as maiden might. Farewell, 

good fellows ! 
{^Exetcjit several Foresters, t/ie others 
withdraw to the back. 
Robin. Sit here by me, where the 

most beaten track 
Runs thro' the forest, hundreds of huge 

oaks, 
Gnarl'd — older than the thrones of 

Europe — look, 
What breadth, height, strength — torrents 

of eddying bark ! 
Some hollow-hearted from exceeding 

age- 
That never be thy lot or mine ! — and 

some 
Pillaring a leaf- sky on their monstrous 

boles, 
Sound at the core as we are. Fifty 

leagues 
Of woodland hear and know my horn, 

that scares 
The Baron at the torture of his churls. 
The pillage of his vassals. 

O maiden-wife, 
The oppression of our people moves me 

so. 
That when I think of it hotly, Love 

himself 
Seems but a ghost, but when thou feel'st 

•with me 



The ghost returns to Marian, clothes 

itself 
In maiden flesh and blood, and looks at 

once 
Maid Marian, and that maiden freedom 

which 
Would never brook the tyrant. Live 

thou maiden ! 
Thou art more my wife so feeling, than 

if my wife 
And siding with these proud priests, and 

these Barons, 
Devils, that make this blessed England 

hell. 

Marian. Earl 

Robin. Nay, no Earl am L I am 

English yeoman. 
Marian. Then / am yeo- woman. 

O the clumsy word ! 
Robin. Take thou this light kiss for 

thy clumsy word. 
Kiss me again. 

Marian. Robin, I will not kiss thee, 
For that belongs to marriage ; but I 

hold thee 
The husband of my heart, the noblest 

light 
That ever flash'd across my life, and I 
Embrace thee with the kisses of the soul. 
Robin. I thank thee. 
Marian. Scarlet told me — is it 

true ? — 
That John last week return'd to Notting- 
ham, 
And all the foolish world is pressing 

thither. 
Robin. Sit here, my queen, and 

judge the world with me. 
Doubtless, like judges of another bench. 
However wise, we must at times have 

wrought 
Some gjeat injustice, yet, far as we knew, 
We never robb'd one friend of the true 

King. 
We robb'd the traitors that are leagued 

with John ; 
We robb'd the lawyer who went against 

the law ; 
We spared the craftsman, chapman, all 

that live 



826 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT III 



By their own hands, the labourer, the 

poor priest ; 
We spoil'd the prior, friar, abbot, monk, 
For playing upside down with Holy Writ. 
' Sell all thou hast and give it to the 

poor ' ; 
Take all they have and give it to thyself ! 
Then after we have eased them of their 

coins 
It is our forest custom they should revel 
Along with Robin. 

Marian. And if a woman pass - 

Robin, ^ Dear, in these days of 

Norman license, when 
Our English maidens are their prey, if 

ever 
A Norman damsel fell into our hands. 
In this dark wood when all was in our 

power 
We never wrong'd a woman. 

Marian. Noble Robin. 

Little John [coming forward). Here 
come three beggars. 

Enter the three Beggars 

Little John. Toll ! 

First Beggar. Eh ! we be beggars, 
we come to ask o' you. We ha' nothing. 

Second Beggar. Rags, nothing but 
our rags. 

Third Beggar. I have but one penny 
in pouch, and so you would make it two 
I should be grateful. 

Marian. Beggars, you are sturdy 
rogues that should be set to work. You 
are those that tramp the country, filch 
the linen from the hawthorn, poison the 
house-dog, and scare lonely maidens at 
the farmstead. Search them. Little John. 

Little John. These two have forty 
gold marks between them, Robin. 

Robin. Cast them into our treasury, 
the beggars' mites. Part shall go to the 
almshouses at Nottingham, part to the 
shrine of our Lady. Search this other. 

Little John. He hath, as he said, but 
one penny. 

Robin. Leave it with him and add 
a gold mark thereto. He hath spoken 
truth in a world of lies. 



Third Beggar. I thank you, my lord. 

Little John. A fine, a fine ! he hath 
called plain Robin a lord. How much 
for a beggar ? 

Robin. Take his penny and leave 
him his gold mark. 

Little John. Sit there, knaves, till 
the captain call for you. 

yrhey pass behind the trunk of 
an oak on the right. 

Marian. Art thou not hard upon 
them, my good Robin ? 

Robin. They might be harder upon 
thee, if met in a black lane at midnight : 
the throat might gape before the tongue 
could cry who ? 

Little John. Here comes a citizen, 
and I think his wife. 

Enter Citizen ana Wife 

Citizen. That business which we 

have in Nottingham 

Little John. Halt ! 
Citizen. O dear wife, we have fallen 
into the hands 
Of Robin Hood. 

Marian. And Robin Hood hath 
sworn — 
Shame on thee. Little John, thou hast 

forgotten — 
That by the blessed Mother no man, so 
His own true wife came with him, should 

be stay'd . 
From passing onward. Fare you well, 
fair lady ! {^Bowing to her. 

Robin. And may your business thrive 

in Nottingham ! 
Citizen. I thank you, noble sir, the 
very blossom 
Of bandits. Curtsey to him, wife, and 
thank him. 
Wife. I thank you, noble sir, and 
will pray for you 
That yon may thrive, but in some 
kindlier trade. 
Citizen. Away, away, wife, wilt thou 
anger him ? 

[Exeunt Citizen and his Wife. 
Little John. Here come three- friars. 



TH^ FORESTERS 



827 



Robin. Marian, thou and thy woman 
{looking round). 
Why, where is Kate ? 

Marian {calling). Kate ? 

Kate. Here ! 

Robin. Thou and thy woman are a 
match for three friars. Take thou my 
bow and arrow and compel them to pay 
toll. 

Marian. Toll I 

Enter three Friars 
First Friar {advancing). Behold a 
pretty Dian of the wood. 
Prettier than that same widow which you 

wot of. 
Ha, brother. Toll, my dear ? the toll 
of love. 
Marian {drawing bow). Back ! how 
much money hast thou in thy 
pui'se ? 
First Friar. Thou art playing with 
us. How should poor friars have money? 
Marian. How much ? how much ? 

Speak, or the arrow flies. 
First Friar. How much ? well, now 
I bethink me, I have one mark in gold 
which a pious son of the Church gave 
me this morning on my setting forth. 

Marian {bending bow at the second). 
And thou ? 

Second Friar. Well, as he said, one 
mark in gold. 

Marian {bending bow at the third). 
And thou ? 

Third Friar. One mark in gold. 
Marian. Search them, Kate, and see 
if they have spoken truth. 

Kate. They are all mark'd men. 
They have told but a tenth of the truth : 
they have each ten marks in gold. 

Marian. Leave them each what they 
say is theirs, and take the twenty-seven 
marks to the captain's treasury. Sit 
there till you be called for. 

First Friar. We have fall'n into the 
hands of Robin Hood. 
[Marian and Kate return to Robin. 
\^The Y\vxx'i> pass behind an oak on 
the left. 



Robin. Honour to thee, brave 

Marian, and thy Kate. 
I know them arrant knaves in 

Nottingham. 
One half of this shall go to those they 

have wrong'd. 
One half shall pass into our treasury. 
Where lies that cask of wine whereof we 

plunder'd 
The Norman prelate ? 

Little John. In that oak, where twelve 

Can stand upright, nor touch each other. 

Robin. Good ! 

Roll it in here. These friars, thieves, 

and liars. 
Shall drink the health of our new wood- 
land Queen. 
And they shall pledge thee, Marian, 

loud enough 
To fright the wild hawk passing overhead. 
The mouldwarp underfoot. 

Marian. They pledge me, Robin ? 

The silent blessing of one honest man 
Is heard in heaven — the wassail yells of 

thief 
And rogue and liar echo down in Hell, 
And wake the Devil, and I may sicken 

by 'em. 
Well, well, be it so, thou strongest thief 

of all, 
Yox thou hast stolen my will, and made 

it thine. 

Friar Tuck, Little John, Much, 
ajid Scarlet roll in cask 

Friar Tuck. I marvel is it sack 01 
Malvoisie ? 

Robin. Do me the service to tap it, 
and thou wilt know. 

Friar Tuck. I would tap myself in 
thy service, Robin. 

Robin. And thou wouldst run more 
wine than blood. 

Friar Tuck. And both at thy service, 
Robin. 

Robin, I believe thee, thou art a 
good fellow, though a friar. 

[ They pour the wine into cups. 

Friar Tuck. Fill to the brim. Our 
Robin, King o' the woods, 



828 



THE FORESTERS 



Wherever the horn sound, and the buck 

bound, 

Robin, the people's friend, the King o' 

the woods ! {They drink. 

Robin. To the brim and over till the 

green earth drink 

Her health along wdth us in this rich 

draught. 
And answer it in flowers. The Queen 

o' the woods, 
Wherever the buck bound, and the horn 

sound. 
Maid Marian, Queen o' the woods ! 

[ They drink. 

Here, you three rogues, 

\To the Beggars. They come out. 

You caught a lonely woodman of our 

band. 
And bruised him almost to the death, 

and took 
His monies. 

Third Beggar. Captain, nay, it wasn't 

me. 
Robin. You ought to dangle up there 
among the crows. 
Drink to the health of our new Queen o' 

the woods. 
Or else be bound and beaten. 

First Beggar. Sir, sir — well, 

We drink the health of thy new Queen 
o' the woods. 
Robin. Louder ! louder ! Maid 

Marian, Queen o' the woods ! 
Beggars {shouting). Maid Marian, 
Queen o' the woods : Queen o' 
the woods ! 

First and Second Beggais {aside). The 
black fiend grip her ! 

{They drink. 

Robin {to the Friars). And you three 

holy men, {They come out. 

You worshippers of the Virgin, one of 

you 
Shamed a too trustful widow whom you 

heard 
In her confession : and another — worse !• — 
An innocent maid. Drink to the Queen 

o' the woods, 
Or else be bound and beaten. 



First Friar. Robin Hood, 

These be the lies the people tell of us. 
Because we seek to curb their viciousness. 
However — to this maid, this Queen o' 
the woods. 

Robin. Louder, louder, ye knaves. 
Maid Marian ! 
Queen o' the woods ! 

Friars {shouting). Maid Marian, 
Queen o' the woods. 

First Friar {aside). Maid ? 

Second Friar {aside). Paramour ! 

Third Friar {aside). Hell take her ! 
{They drink. 

Friar Tuck, Robin, will you not 
hear one of these beggars' catches? 
They can do it. I have heard 'em in 
the market at Mansfield. 

Little John. No, my lord, hear ours 
— Robin — I crave pardon, I always 
think of you as my lord, but I may still 
say my lady ; and, my lady, Kate and I 
have fallen out again, and I pray you to 
come between us again, for, my lady, 
we have made a song in your honour, so 
your ladyship care to listen. 

Robin. Sing, and by St. Mary these 
beggars and these friars shall join you. 
Play the air, Little John. 

Little John. Air and word, my lady, 
are maid and man. Join them and they 
are a true marriage ; and so, I pray you, 
my lady, come between me and my Kate 
and make us one again. Scarlet, begin. 
{Playing the air on his viol. 

Scarlet 

By all the deer that spring 
Thro' wood and lawn and ling, 

When all the leaves are green ; 
By arrow and gray goosewing, 
When horn and echo ring, 
We care so much for a King ; 

We care not much for a Queen — 

For a Queen, for a Queen o' the woods. 

iMarian. Do you call that in my 
honour ? 

Scarlet. Bitters before dinner, my 
lady, to give you a relish. The first part 
— made' before you came among us — they 



i 



ACT IV 



THE FORESTERS 



829 



put it upon me because I have a bad 
wife. I love you all the same. Proceed. 
{All the rest sing. 
Bj' all the leaves of spring, 
And all the birds that sing 

When all the leaves are green ; 
By arrow and by bowstring, 
We care so much for a King 
That we would die for a Queen — 

For a Queen, for a Queen o' the woods. 

E7tter Forester 
Forester. Black nevi^s, black nev\\s 

from Nottingham ! I grieve 
I am the Raven who croaks it. My 

lord John, 
In wrath because you drove him from 

the forest, 
Is coming with a swarm of mercenaries 
To break our band and scatter us to the 

winds. 
Marian. O Robin, Robin ! See 

that men be set 
Along the glades and passes of the wood 
To warn us of his coming ! then each 

man 
That owns a wife or daughter, let him 

bury her 
Even in the bowels of the earth to 'scape 

The glance of John 

Robin. You hear your Queen, obey ! 



ACT IV 
THE CONCLUSION 

SCENE. A FOREST BOWER, CAVERN 

IN BACKGROUND. SUNRISE 

Marian [rising to meefRohm). Robin, 

the sweet light of a mot^lier's eye, 

That beam of dawn upon the opening 

flower. 
Has never glanced upon me when a child. 
He was my father, mother, both in one. 
The love that children owe to both I give 
To him alone. 

(Robin offers to caress her) 
Marian. Quiet, good Robin, quiet ! 
You lovers are such clumsy summer-flies 
For ever buzzing at your lady's face. 



Robin. Bees rather, 
flower for honey. 



flying to the 



Marian {sings) 

The bee buzz'd up in the heat. 
' I am faint for your honey, my sweet.' 
The flower said ' Take it, my dear. 
For now is the spring of the year. 
So come, come ! ' 
' Hum ! ' 
And the bee buzz'd down from the heat. 

And the bee buzz'd up in the cold 
When the flower was wither'd and old. 
' Have'you still any honey, my dear ? ' 
She said ' It's the fall of the year, 
But come, come ! ' 
'Hum!' 
And the bee buzz'd oflf in the cold. 

Robin. Out on thy song ! 

Marian. Did I not sing it in tune ? 

Robin. No, sweetheart ! out of tune 

with Love and me. 
Marian. And yet in tune with Nature 

and the bees. 
Robin. Out on it, I say, as out of tune 

and time ! 
Marian. Till thou thyself shalt come 

to sing it — in time. 
Robin (taking a tress of Jur hair in 
his hand). Time ! if his back- 
ward-working alchemy 
Should change this gold to silver, why, 

the silver 
Were dear as gold, the wrinkle as the 

dimple. 
Thy bee should buzz about the Court of 

John. 
No ribald John is Love, no wanton Prince, 
The ruler of an hour, but lawful King, 
Whose writ will run thro' all the range of 

life. 
Out upon all hard-hearted maidenhood ! 
Marian. And out upon all simple 
batchelors ! 
Ah, well ! thou seest the land has come 

between us. 
And my sick father here has come between 

us. 
And this rich Sheriff too has come between 

us; 
So, is it not all over now between us ? 



830 



THE FORESTERS 



Gone, like a deer that hath escaped thine 
arrow ! 
Robm. What deer when I have 
mark'd him ever yet 
Escaped mine arrow ? over is it ? wilt 

thou 
Give me thy hand on that ? 

Marian. Take it. 

Robhi [kisses her hand). The Sheriff ! 
This ring cries out against thee. Say it 

again, 
And by this ring the lips that never 

breathed 
Love's falsehood to true maid will seal 

Love's truth 
On those sweet lips that dare to dally 
with it. 
Marian. Quiet, quiet ! or I will to 

my father. 
Robin. So, then, thy father will not 
grace our feast 
With his white beard to-day. 

Marian. Being so sick 

How should he, Robin? 

Robin. Then that bond he hath 

Of the Abbot — wilt thou ask him for it ? 
Marian. Why ? 

Robin. I have sent to the Abbot and 
justiciary 
To bring their counter -bond into the 
forest. 
Maria7i. But will they come ? 
Robin. If not I have let them know 
Their lives unsafe in any of these our 

woods, 
And in the winter I will fire their farms. 
But I have sworn by our Lady if they 

come 
I will not tear the bond, but see fair play 
Betwixt them and Sir Richard — promised 

too, 
So that they deal with us like honest men, 
They shall be handled with all courteous- 
ness. 
Marian. What wilt thou do with the 

bond then ? 
Robin. Wait and see. 

What wilt thou do with the Sheriff? 

Marian. Wait and see. 

I bring the bond. \Exit Marian. 



Enter Little John, Friar Tuck, and 
Much, and Foresters and 
Peasants laughing and talking. 

Robin. Have ye glanced down thro' 
all the forest ways 
And mark'd if those two knaves from 
York be coming? 
Little John. Not yet, but here comes 
one of bigger mould. 

^Enter King Richard. 
Art thou a knight ? 
King Richard. I am. 
Robin. And walkest here 

Unarmour'd ? all these walks are Robin 

Hood's 
And sometimes perilous. 

Kijig Richard. Good ! but having 
lived 
For twenty days and nights in mail, at 

last 
I crawl'd like a sick crab from my old 

shell. 
That I might breathe for a moment free 

of shield 
And cuirass in this forest where I dream'd 
That all was peace — not even a Robin I 

Hood— 
[Aside) What if these knaves should 
know me for their King ? 
Robin. Art thou for Richard, or allied 

to John? 
King Richard. I am allied to John. 
Robin. The worse for thee. 

King Richard. Art thou that banish'd 
lord of Huntingdon, 
The chief of these outlaws who break 
the law ? 
Robin. I am the yeoman, plain Robin 
Hood, al|d being out of the law how 
should we break the law? if we broke 
into it again we should break the law, 
and then we were no longer outlaws. 
King Richard. But, Earl, if thou be 

he 

Friar Tuck. Fine him ! fine him ! 
he hath called plain Robin an earl. 
How much is it, Robin, for a knight ? 
Robin. A mark. 
King Richard [gives it). There. 



ACT IV 



THE FORESTERS 



831 



Robin. Thou payest easily, like a 
good fellow, 
But being o' John's side we must have 
thy gold. 
King Richard. But I am more for 

Richard than for John. 
Robin. What, what, a truckler ! a 
word-eating coward ! 
Nay, search him then. How much hast 
thou about thee ? 
King Richard. I had one mark. 
Robin. What more. 
King Richard. No more, I think. 

But how then if I will not bide to be 
search'd ? 
Robin. We are four to one. 
King Richard. And I might deal 

with four. 
Robin. Good, good, I love thee for 
that ! but if I wind 
This forest -horn of mine I can bring 

down 
Fourscore tall fellows on thee. 

King Richard. Search me then. 

T should be hard beset with thy fourscore. 

Little Johji {searching King Richard). 

Robin, he hath no more. He 

hath spoken truth. 

Robin. I am glad of it. Give him 

back his gold again. 
King Richard. But I had liefer than 
this gold again — 
Not having broken fast the livelong day — 
Something to eat. 

Robin. And thou shalt have it, man. 
Our feast is yonder, spread beneath an 

oak, 
Venison, and wild boar, hare, geese, 

besides 
Hedge-pigs, a savoury viand, so thou be 
Squeamish at eating the King's venison. 
King Richard. Nay, Robin, I am 
like thyself in that 
I look on the King's venison as my own. 
Friar Tuck. Ay, ay, Robin, but let 
him know our forest laws : he that pays 
not for his dinner must fight for it. In 
the sweat of thy brow, says Holy Writ, 
shalt thou eat bread, but in the sweat of 
thy brow and thy breast, and thine arms, 



and thy legs, an^ thy heart, and thy 
liver, and in the fear of thy life shalt 
thou eat the King's venison — ay, and 
so thou fight at quarterstaff for thy 
dinner with our Robin, that will give 
thee a new zest for it, though thou wert 
like a bottle full up to the cork, or as 
hollow as a kex, or the shambles-oak, or 
a weasel-sucked egg, or the head of a 
fool, or the heart of Prince John, or any 
other symbol of vacuity. 

{They bring ojit the qtiarterstaffs, 
and the Foresters and Peasants 
crowd round to see the games ^ and 
applaud at intervals. 

King Richard. Great woodland king, 
I know not quarterstaff. 

Little John. A fine ! a fine ! He 
hath called plain Robin a king. 

Robin. A shadow, a poetical fiction 
—did ye not call me king in your song ? 
— a mere figure. Let it go by. 

Friar Tuck. No figure, no fiction, 
Robin. What, is not man a hunting 
animal ? And look you now, if we kill 
a stag, our dogs have their paws cut off, 
and the hunters, if caught, are blinded, 
or worse than blinded. Is that to be a 
king? If the king and the law work 
injustice, is not he that goes against the 
king and the law the true king in the 
sight of the King of kings ? Thou art 
the king of the forest, and I would thou 
wert the king of the land. 

King Richard. This friar is of much 
boldness, noble captain. 

Robin. He hath got it from the 
bottle, noble knight. 

Friar Tttck. Boldness out of the 
bottle ! I defy thee. 
Boldness is in the blood, Truth in the 

bottle. 
She lay so long at the bottom of her well 
In the cold water that she lost her voice, 
And so she glided up into the heart 
O' the bottle, the warm wine, and found 

it again. 
/// vino Veritas. Shall I undertake 
The knight at quarterstaff, or thou ? 

Robin, Peace, magpie ! 



832 



THE FORESTERS 



Give him the quarterstaff. Nay, but 

thyself 
Shalt play a bout with me, that he may 

see 

The fashion of it. 

{^Plays with Friar Tuck at quarterstaff. 

King Richard. Well, then, let me 

try. IThey play. 

I yield, I yield. I know no quarterstaff. 

Robin. Then thou shalt play the 

game of buffets with us. 
Ki}tg Richard. What's that ? 
Robin. I stand up here, thou there. 
I give thee 
A buffet, and thou me. The Holy 

Virgin 
Stand by the strongest. I am over- 
breathed. 
Friar, by my two bouts at quarterstaff. 
Take him and try him, friar. 

Friar Tuck. There ! \Strikes. 

Sir Richard {strikes). There ! 

\¥x\^x falls. 

Friar Tuck. There ! 

Thou hast roll'd over the Church 

militant 
Like a tod of wool from wagon into 

warehouse. 
Nay, I defy thee still. Try me an hour 

hence. 
I am misty with my thimbleful of ale. 
Robin. Thou seest, Sir Knight, our 
friar is so holy 
That he's a miracle -monger^ and can 

make 
Five quarts pass into a thimble. Up, 
good Much. 
Friar Tick. And show thyself more 

of a man than me. 
Much. Well, no man yet has ever 

bowl'd me down. 
Scarlet. Ay, for old Much is every 

inch a man. 
Robin. We should be all the more 

beholden to him. 
Much. Much and more ! much and 
more ! I am the oldest of thy men, and 
thou and thy youngsters are always 
muching and moreing me. 

Robin. Because thou art always so 



much more of a man than my youngsters, 
old Much, 

Mjich. Well, we Muches be old. 
Robin. Old as the hills. 
Much. Old as the mill. We had it 
i' the Red King's time, and so I may be 
more of a man than to be bowled over 
like a ninepin. There ! {Strikes. 

King Richard. There ! 

[Much/a/Zi-. 
Robin. ' Much would have more,' 
says the proverb ; but Much hath had 
more than enough. Give me thy hand, 
Much ; I love thee {lifts him zip). At 
him, Scarlet ! 

Scarlet. I cannot cope with him : 

my wrist is strain'd. 
King Richard. Try, thyself, valorous 

Robin ! 
Robin. I am mortally afear'd o' thee, 
thou big man, 
Eut seeing valour is one against all odds. 
There ! 

King Richard. There ! 

[Robin falls back, and is caught 
in the arms of Little John. 
Robin. Good, now I love thee 
mightily, thou tall fellow. 
Break thine alliance with this faithless 

John, 
And live with us and the birds in the 
green wood. 
King Richard. I cannot break it, 
Robin, if I wish'd. 
Still I am more for Richard than for 
John. 
Little John. Look, Robin, at the far 
end of the glade 
I see two figures crawling up the hill. 

{Distant sotind of trumpets. 
Robin. The Abbot of York and his 

justiciary. 
King Richard {aside). They know 
me. I must not as yet be 
known. 
Friends, your free sports have swallow'd 

my free hour. 
Farewell at once, for I must hence upon 
The King's affair. 

Robin. Not taste his venison first ? 



ACT IV 



THE FORESTERS 



833 



Friar Ttick. Hast thou not fought 

for it, and earn'd it ? Stay, 
Dine with my brethren here, and on 

thine own. 
King Richard. And which be they ? 
Friar Tuck. Geese, man ! for how 

canst thou be thus allied 
With John, and serve King Richard save 

thou be 
A traitor or a goose ? but stay with 

Robin ; 
For Robin is no scatterbrains like 

Richard, 
Robin's a wise man, Richard a wiseacre, 
Robin's an outlaw, but he helps the 

poor. 
While Richard hath outlaw'd himself, 

and helps 
Nor rich, nor poor. Richard's the king 

of courtesy. 
For if he did me the good grace to kick 

me 
I could but sneak and smile and call it 

courtesy. 
For he's a king. 

And that is only courtesy by courtesy — 
But Robin is a thief of courtesy 
Whom they that suffer by him call the 

blossom 
Of bandits. There — to be a thief of 

courtesy— 
There is a trade of genius, there's glory ! 
Again, this Richard sacks and wastes a 

town 
With random pillage, but our Robin 

takes 
From whom he knows are hypocrites 

and liars. 
Again this Richard risks his life for a 

straw, 
So lies in prison — while our Robin's life 
Hangs by a thread, but he is a free 

man. 
Richard, again, is king over a realm 
He hardly knows, and Robin king of 

Sherwood, 
And loves and dotes on every dingle of it. 
Again this Richard is the lion of Cyprus, 
Robin, the lion of Sherwood — may this 

mouth 



Never suck grape again, if our true 

Robin 
Be not the nobler lion of the twain. 
King Richard. Gramercy for thy 

preachment ! if the land 
Were ruleable by tongue, thou shouldst 

be king. 
And yet thou know'st how little of thy 

king ! 
What was this realm of England, all the 

crowns 
Of all this world, to Richard when he 

flung 
His life, heart, soul into those holy wars 
That sought to free the tomb-place of 

the King 
Of all the world ? thou, that art church- 
man too 
In a fashion, and shouldst feel with him. 

Farewell ! 
I left mine horse and armour with a 

Squire, 
And I must see to 'em. 

Robin. When wilt thou return ? 

King Richard. Return, I ? when ? 

when Richard will return. 
Robin. No sooner ? when will that 

be ? canst thou tell ? 
But I have ta'en a sudden fancy to thee. 
Accept this horn ! if e'er thou be assail'd 
In any of our forests, blow upon it 
Three mots, this fashion — listen ! {blows) 

Canst thou do it ! 

[King Richard blows. 
Blown Hke a true son of the woods. 

Farewell ! 

\^Exit King Richard. 

Enter Abbot and Justiciary 

Friar Tick. Church and Law, halt 
and pay toll ! 

Justiciary. Rogue, we have thy 
captain's safe-conduct ; though he be the 
chief of rogues, he hath never broken 
his word. 

Abbot. There is our bond. 

{^Gives it to Robin. 

Robin. I thank thee. 

Jtisticiary. Ay, but where, 

Where is this old Sir Richard of the Lea? 

3H 



834 



THE FORESTERS 



Thou told'st us we should meet him in 

the forest, 
Where he would pay us down his thousand 
marks. 
Robin. Give him another month, and 

he will pay it. 
Justiciary. We cannot give a month. 
Robin. Why then a week. 

Justiciary. No, not an hour : the 

debt is due to-day. 
Abbot. Where is this laggard Richard 

of the Lea ? 
Robin. He hath been hurt, was grow- 
ing whole again, 
Only this morning in his agony 
Lest he should fail to pay these thousand 

marks 
He is stricken with a slight paralysis. 
Have you no pity? must you see the 
man? 
J2isticiary. Ay, ay, what else ? how 

else can this be settled ? 
Robin. Go men, and fetch him hither 
on the litter. 
[Sir Richard Lea is by-ought in. 
Marian coj7ies with him. 
Marian. Here is my father's bond. 

\_Givcs it to Robin Hood. 
Robin. I thank thee, dear. 

Justiciary. Sir Richard, it was agreed 
when you borrowed these monies from 
the Abbot that if they were not repaid 
within a limited time your land should 
be forfeit. 

Sir Richard. The land ! the land. 
Marian. You see he is past himself. 
What would you more ? 

Abbot. What more ? one thousand 

marks. 
Or else the land. 

You hide this damsel in your forest here, 
{^Pointing to Marian. 
You hope to hold and keep her for your- 
self. 
You heed not how you soil her maiden 

fame. 
You scheme against her father's weal and 

hers, 
For so this maid would wed our brother, 
he 



Would pay us all the debt at once, and 

thus 
This old Sir Richard might redeem his 

land. 
He is all for love, he cares not for the 
land. 
Sir Richard. The land, the land ! 
Robin [giving two bags to the Abbot). 
Here be one thousand marks 
Out of our treasury to redeem the land. 

{Pointing to each of the bags. 
Half here, half there. 

{Plaudits from his band. 
Justiciary. Ay, ay, but there is use, 

four hundred marks. 
Robin [giving a bag to Justiciary). 
There then, four hundred marks. 

{Plaudits. 

Justiciary. What did I say? 

Nay, my tongue tript — fivehundred marks 

for use. 

Robin [giving another bag to him). A 

hundred more ? There then, a 

hundred more. {Platidits. 

Justiciary. Ay, ay, but you see the 

bond and the letter of the law. It is 

stated there that these monies should be 

paid in to the Abbot at York, at the end 

of the month at noon, and they are 

delivered here in the wild wood an hour 

after noon. 

Marian. The letter — O how often 
justice drowns 
Between the law and letter of the law ! 
O God, I would the letter of the law 
Were some strong fellow here in the wild 

wood, 
That thou mightst beat him down at 

quarterstafif ! 
Have you no pity ? 

Justiciary. You run down your game. 

We ours. What pity have you for your 

game? 

Robin. We needs must live. Our 

bowmen are so true 

They strike the deer at once to death — • 

he falls 
And knows no more. 

Alariaft. Pity, pity ! — There was a 
man of ours 



THE FORESTERS 



835 



Up in the north, a goodly fellow too, 
He met a stag there on so narrow a 

ledge — 
A precipice above, and one below — 
There was no room to advance or to retire. 
The man lay down — the delicate-footed 

creature 
Came stepping o'er him, so as not to 

harm him — 
The hunter's passion flash'd into the 

man, 
He drove his knife into the heart of the 

deer, 
The deer fell dead to the bottom, and 

the man 
Fell with him, and was crippled ever 

after. 
I fear I had small pity for that man. — 
You have the monies and the use of them. 
What would you more ? 
Justiciary. What ? must we dance 

attendance all the day ? 
Robin. Dance ! ay, by all the saints 
and all the devils ye shall dance. When 
the Church and the law have forgotten 
God's music, they shall dance to the 
music of the wild wood. Let the birds 
sing, and do you dance to their song. 
What, you will not ? Strike up our 
music. Little John. {He plays.) They 
will not ! Prick 'em in the calves with 
the arrow-points — prick 'em in the calves. 
Abbot. Rogue, I am full of gout. I 

cannot dance. 
Robin, And Sir Richard cannot 
redeem his land. Sweat out your gout, 
friend, for by my life, you shall dance 
till he can. Prick him in the calves ! 

Jtisticiayy. Rogue, I have a swollen 
vein in my right leg, and if thou prick 
me there I shall die. 

Robin. Prick him where thou wilt, 

so that he dance. 
Abbot. Rogue, we come not alone. 
Justiciary. Not the right. 
Abbot. We told the Prince and the 

Sheriff of our coming. 
Justiciary. Take the left leg for the 

love of God. 
Abbot. They follow us. 



Justiciary. You will all of you hang. 

Robin. Let us hang, so thou dance 

meanwhile ; or by that same love of God 

we will hang thee, prince or no prince, 

sheriff or no sheriff. 

Justiciary. Take care, take care ! I 
dance — I will dance — I dance. 

[Abbot a;/i^ Justiciary dance to inusic^ 
each holding a bag in each hand. 

Enter Scarlet 

Scarlet. The Sheriff! the Sheriff, 
follow'd by Prince John 
And all his mercenaries ! We sighted 

'em 
Only this moment. By St. Nicholas 
They must have sprung like Ghosts from 

underground. 
Or, like the Devils they are, straight up 
from Hell. 
Robin. Crouch all into the bush ! 

\The P'oresters and Peasants hide 
behind the bushes. 
Marian. Take up the litter ! 

Sir Richard. Move me no more ! 
I am sick and faint with pain ! 

Marian. But, Sir, the Sheriff 

Sir Richard. Let me be, I say ! 
The Sheriff will be welcome ! let me be ! 
Maj'iaji. Give me my bow and 
arrows. I remain 
Beside my Father's litter. 

Robin. And fear not thou ! 

Each of us has an arrow on the cord ; 
We all keep watch. 

Enter Sheriff of Nottingham 

Sheriff. Marian ! 

Marian. Speak not. I wait upon a 

dying father. 
Sheriff. The debt hath not been paid. 

She will be mine. 
What are you capering for ? By old St. 

Vitus 
Have you gone mad ? Has it been paid ? 
Abbot {dancing). O yes. 

Sheiiff. Have I lost her then ? 
Justiciary {dancing). Lost her? O 

no, we took 



836 



THE FORESTERS 



Advantage of the letter — O Lord, the 

vein ! 
Not paid at York — the wood — prick me 
no more ! 
Sheriff. What pricks thee save it be 

thy conscience, man ? 
Justiciary. By my halidome I felt 
him at my leg still. Where be they 
gone to ? 

Sheriff. Thou art alone in the silence 
of the forest 
Save for this maiden and thy brother 

Abbot, 
And this old crazeling in the litter there. 

Enter on one side Friar Tuck fro77i the 
bush, and on the other Prince John 
and his Spearmen, with banners and 
trumpets, etc. 
Justiciary [exajnining his leg). They 

have missed the vein. 
Abbot. And we shall keep the land. 
Sheriff. Sweet Marian, by the letter 
of the law 
It seems thy father's land is forfeited. 
Sir Richard. No ! let me out of the 
litter. He shall wed thee : 
The land shall still be mine. Child, 

thou shalt wed him, 
Or thine old father will go mad — he will, 
He will— he feels it in his head. 

Marian. O peace ! 

Father, I cannot marry till Richard 

comes. 

Sir Richard. And then the Sheriff ! 

Marian. Ay, the Sheriff, father. 

Would buy me for a thousand marks in 

gold- 
Sell me again perchance for twice as 

much. 
A woman's heart is but a little thing, 
Much lighter than a thousand marks in 

gold; 
But pity for a father, it may be. 
Is weightier than a thousand marks in 

gold. 
I cannot love the Sheriff. 

Sir Richard. But thou wilt wed him ? 

Marian. Ay, save King Richard, 

when he comes, forbid me. 



Sweet heavens, I could wish that all the 

land 
Were plunged beneath the waters of the 

sea, 
Tho' all the world should go about in 

boats. 
Friar Tuck. Why, so should all the 

love-sick be sea-sick. 
Marian. Better than heart-sick, friar. 
Prince John {to Sheriff). See you not 
They are jesting at us yonder, mocking us? 
Carry her off, and let the old man die. 

[Advancing to Marian. 
Come, girl, thou shalt along with us on 

the instant. 
Friar Tuck {brandishing his staff). 
Then on the instant I will break thy 

head. 
Sheriff. Back, thou fool - friar ! 

Knowest thou not the Prince ? 
Friar Tuck {muttering). He may be 

prince ; he is not gentleman. 
Prince John. Look ! I will take the 

rope from off thy waist 
And twist it round thy neck and hang 

thee by it. 
Seize him and truss him up, and carry 

her off. 

[Friar Tuck slips into the bush. 
Marian {drawing the bow). No nearer 

to me ! back ! My hand is firm, 
Mine eye most true to one hair's-breadth 

of aim. 
You, Prince, our king to come — you that 

dishonour 
The daughters and the wives of your 

own faction — 
Who hunger for the body, not the soul — 
This gallant Prince would have me of 

his — what ? 
Household ? or shall I call it by that 

new term 
Brought from the sacred East, his harem ? 

Never, 
Tho' you should queen me over all the 

realms 
Field by King Richard, could I stoop so 

low 
As mate with one that holds no love is 

pure, 



1 



THE FORESTERS 



837 



No friendship sacred, values neither man 
Nor woman save as tools — God help the 

mark — 
To his own unprincely ends. And you, 

you. Sheriff, 

{Turning to the Sheriff. 
Who thought to buy your marrying me 

with gold. 
Marriage is of the soul, not of the body. 
Win me you cannot, murder me you may, 
And all I love, Robin, and all his men. 
For I am one with him and his ; but 

while 
I breathe Heaven's air, and Heaven 

looks down on me, 
And- smiles at my best meanings, I 

remain 
Mistress of mine own self and mine own 

soul. 
\Retreating, with bozv drawn, to the bush. 
Robin ! 

Robin. I am here, my arrow on the 

cord. 
He dies who dares to touch thee. 

Prince John. Advance, advance ! 

What, daunted by a garrulous, arrogant 

girl ! 
Seize her and carry her off into my castle. 
Shej'iff. Thy castle ! 
Prhice John. Said I not, I loved 

thee, man ? 
Risk not the love I bear thee for a girl. 
Sheriff. Thy castle ! 
Prince John. See thou thwart me 

not, thou fool ! 
When Richard comes he is soft enough 

to pardon 
His brother ; but all those that held with 

him. 
Except I plead for them, will hang as 

high 
As Haman. 

Sheriff. She is mine. I have thy 

promise. 
Prince John. O ay, she shall be thine 

— first mine, then thine. 
For she shall spend her honeymoon with 

me. 
Sheriff. Woe to that land shall own 

thee for her king ! 



Prince Joh7i. Advance, advance ! 
[ They advance shottting. The King 
in armotirreappears from the wood. 
K\ng Richard. What shouts are 

these that ring along the wood ? 
Friar Ttick {coming forzvard). Hail, 
knight, and help us. Here is 
one would clutch 
Our pretty Marian for his paramour, 
This othef, willy-nilly, for his bride. 
King Richard. Damsel, is this the 

truth ? 
Marian. Ay, noble knight. 
Friar Tuck. Ay, and she will not 

marry till Richard come. 
King Richard {raising his vizor). I 

am here, and I am he. 
Prince John {lo7Cje7'ing his , and whisper- 
ing to his men). It is not he — 
his face — tho' very like — 
No, no ! we have certain news he died in 

prison. 

Make at him, all of you, a traitor coming 

In Richard's name — it is not he — not he. 

\The men stand amazed. 

Friar Tuck {going back to the bush). 

Robin, shall we not move ? 
Robin. It is the King 

Who bears all down. Let him alone 

awhile. 
He loves the chivalry of his single arm. 
Wait till he blow the horn. 

Friar Tuck {comitig back). If thou be 
king. 
Be not a fool ! Why blowest thou not 
the horn ? 
King Richard. I that have turn'd 
their Moslem crescent pale — 
I blow the horn against this rascal rout ! 
[Friar Tuck plucks the horn fro??i 
him and blows. Richard dashes 
alone against the Sheriff and 
John's men, and is almost borne 
do7vn, when Robin and his men 
rush in and rescue him. 
King Richard {to Robin Hood). 
Thou hast saved my head at the 
peril of thine own. 
Prince John. A horse ! a horse ! I 
must away at once ; 



THE FORESTERS 



ACT IV 



I cannot meet his eyes. I go to 

Nottingham. 
Sheriff, thou wilt find me at Nottingham. 

lExit. 
Sheriff. If anywhere, I shall find 
thee in hell. 
What ! go to slay his brother, and make 

vie 
The monkey that should roast his chest- 
nuts for him ! 
King Richard. I fear to ask who 

left us even now. 
Robin. I grieve to say it was thy 
father's son. 
Shall I not after him and bring him 
back ? 
King Richard. No, let him be. 
Sheriff of Nottingham, 

[Sheriff kneels. 
I have been away from England all these 

years, 
Heading the holy war against the Moslem, 
While thou and others in our kingless 

realms 
Were fighting underhand unholy wars 
Against your lawful king. 

Sheriff. My liege, Prince John — 

King Richard. Say thou no word 

against my brother John. 
Sheriff. Why then, my liege, I have 

no word to say. 
King Richard {to Robin). My good 
friend Robin, Earl of Huntingdon, 
For Earl thou art again, hast thou no 

fetters 
For those of thine own band who would 
betray thee ? 
Robin. I have ; but these were never 
worn as yet. 
I never found one traitor in my band. 
King Richard. Thou art happier than 
thy king. Put him in chains. 

{They fetter the Sheriff. 
Robin. Look o'er these bonds, my 
liege. 

\Sho-iVs the King the bonds. 
They talk together. 
King Richard. You, my lord Abbot, 
you Justiciary, 
\The Abbot a«flf Justiciary kneel. 



I made you Abbot, you Justiciary : 
You both are utter traitors to your king. 
Justiciary. O my good liege, we did 

believe you dead. 
Robin. Was justice dead because the 
King was dead ? 
Sir Richard paid his monies to the Abbot. 
You crost him with a quibble of your law. 
King Richard. But on the faith and 
honour of a king 
The land is his again. 

Sir Richard. The land ! the land ! 
I am crazed no longer, so I have the 
land. 

[Comes ont of the litter andhieels. 
God save the King ! 

King Richard {raising Sir Richard). 
I thank thee, good Sir Richard. 
Maid Marian. 

Marian. Yes, King Richard. 
King Richard. Thou wouldst marry 
This Sheriff when King Richard came 

again 
Except — 

Marian. The King forbad it. True, 

my liege. 
King Richard. How if the King 

command it ? 
Marian. Then, my liege, 

If you would marry me with a traitor 

sheriff, 
I fear I might prove traitor with the 
sheriff. 
King Richard. But if the King forbid 
thy marrying 
With Robin, our good Earl of Hunting- 
don. 
Marian. Then will I live for ever in 

the wild wood. 
Robin {coming forward). And I with 

thee. 
King Richard. On nuts and acorns, 
ha! 
Or the King's deer ? Earl, thou when 

we were hence 
Hast broken all our Norman forest laws, 
And scruplest not to flaunt it to our face 
That thou wilt break our forest laws 

again 
When we are here. Thou art overbold. 



ACT IV 



THE FORESTERS 



839 



Robin. My king, 

I am but the echo of the Hps of love. 
King Richard. Thou hast risk'd thy 
Hfe for mine : bind these two 
men. 
\They take the bags from the Abbot 
and Justiciary, and proceed to 
fetter them. 
Justiciary. But will the King, then, 
judge us all unheard ? 
I can defend my cause against the 

traitors 
Who fain would make me traitor. If 

the King 
Condemn us without trial, men will call 

him 
An Eastern tyrant, not an English king. 
Abbot. Besides, my liege, these men 
are outlaws, thieves, 
They break thy forest laws — nay, by the 

rood 
They have done far worse — they plunder 

— yea, ev'n bishops. 
Yea, ev'n archbishops — if thou side with 

these. 
Beware, O King, the vengeance of the 
Church. 
Friar Tuck {brandishing his staff). 
I pray you, my liege, let me execute the 
vengeance of the Church upon them. I 
have a stout crabstick here, which longs 
to break itself across their backs. 

Robin. Keep silence, bully friar, 

before the King. 
Friar Tuck. If a cat may look at a 
king, may not a friar speak to one ? 
King Richard. I have had a year of 
prison-silence, Robin, 
And heed him not — the vengeance of the 

Church ! 
Thou shalt pronounce the blessing of the 

Church 
On those two here, Robin and Marian. 
Marian. He is but hedge-priest, Sir 

King. 
King Richard. And thou their Queen. 
Our rebel Abbot then shall join your 

hands. 
Or lose all hope of pardon from us — 
yet 



Not now, not now — with after-dinner 

grace. 
Nay, by the dragon of St. George, we 

shall 
Do some injustice, if you hold us here 
Longer from our own venison. Where 

is it? 
I scent it in the green leaves of the wood. 
Marian. First, king, a boon ! 
King Richard. Why surely ye are 

pardon'd. 
Even this brawler of harsh truths — I 

trust 
Half truths, good friar : ye shall with us 

to court. 
Then, if ye cannot breathe but woodland 

air, 
Thou Robin shalt be ranger of this forest. 
And have thy fees, and break the law no 

more. 
Marian. It is not that, my lord. 
King Richard. Then what, my lady ? 
Marian. This is the gala-day of thy 

return. 
I pray thee, for the moment strike the 

bonds 
From these three men, and let them dine 

with us. 
And lie with us among the flowers, and 

drink — 
Ay, whether it be gall or honey to 'em — 
The king's good health in ale and 

Malvoisie. 
King Richard. By Mahound I could 

dine with Beelzebub ! 
So now which way to the dinner ? 

Marian. Past the bank 

Of foxglove, then to left by that one yew. 
You see the darkness thro' the lighter 

leaf. 
But look, who comes ? 

Enter Sailor 
Sailor. We heard Sir Richard Lea 
was here with Robin. 
O good Sir Richard, I am like the man 
In Holy Writ, who brought his talent 

back ; 
For tho' we touch'd at many pirate ports, 
We ever fail'd to light upon thy son. 



840 



THE FORESTERS 



Here is thy gold again. I am sorry for 
it. 
Sir Richard. The gold — my son — 
my gold, my son, the land — 
Here Abbot, Sheriff — no — no, Robin 
Hood. 
Robin. Sir Richard, let that wait till 
we have dined. 
Are all our guests here ? 

King Richard. No — there's yet one 
other : 
I will not dine without him. Come 
from out 

{Enter Walter Lea. 
That oak-tree ! This young warrior 

broke his prison 
And join'd my banner in the Holy Land, 
And cleft the Moslem turban at my side. 
My masters, welcome gallant Walter Lea. 
Kiss him. Sir Richard — kiss him, my 
sweet Marian. 
Mariaft. O Walter, Walter, is it 
thou indeed 
Whose ransom was our ruin, whose 

return 
Builds up our house again ? I fear I 

dream. 
Here — give me one sharp pinch upon 

the cheek 
That I may feel thou art no phantom — 

yet 
Thou art tann'd almost beyond my 
knowing, brother. 

\^They embrace. 
Walter Lea. But thou art fair as 

ever, my sweet sister. 
Sir Richard. Art thou my son ? 
Walter Lea. I am, good father, I am. 
Sir Richard. I had despair'd of thee 
— that sent me crazed. 
Thou art worth thy weight in all those 

marks of gold. 
Yea, and the weight of the very land 

itself, 
Down to the inmost centre. 

Robin. Walter Lea, 

Give me that hand which fought for 

Richard there. 
Embrace me, Marian, and thou, good 
Kate, \To Y^2X^ entering. 



Kiss and congratulate me, my good Kate. 
{She kisses him. 
Little John. Lo now ! lo now ! 
I have seen thee clasp and kiss a man 

indeed. 
For our brave Robin is a man indeed. 
Then by thine own account thou shouldst 

be mine. 
Kate. Well then, who kisses first ? 
Little John. Kiss both together. 

{They kiss each other. 
Robin. Then all is well. In this full 

tide of love. 
Wave heralds wave : thy match shall 

follow mine (to Little John). 
Would there were more — a hundred 

lovers more 
To celebrate this advent of our King ! 
Our forest games are ended, our free life, 
And we must hence to the King's court. 

I trust 
We shall return to the wood. Mean- 
while, farewell 
Old friends, old patriarch oaks. A 

thousand winters 
Will strip you bare as death, a thousand 

summers 
Robe }-ou life-green again. Vote seem, 

as it were. 
Immortal, and we mortal. How few 

Junes 
Will heat our pulses quicker ! How few 

frosts 
Will chill the hearts that beat for Robin 

Hood ! 
Marian. And yet I think these oaks I 

at dawn and even, I 

Or in the balmy breathings of the night, 
Will whisper evermore of Robin Hood. 
We leave but happy memories to the 

forest. 
We dealt in the wild justice of the 

woods. 
All those poor serfs whom we have 

served will bless us. 
All those pale mouths which we have fed 

will praise us — 
All widows we have holpen pray for us. 
Our Lady's blessed shrines throughout 

the land 



THE FORESTERS 



841 



Be all the richer for us. You, good 

friar, 
You Much, you Scarlet, you dear Little 

John, 
Your names will cling like ivy to the 

wood. 
And here perhaps a hundred years away 
Some hunter in day - dreams or half 

asleep 
Will hear our arrows whizzing overhead. 
And catch the winding of a phantom 

horn. 
Robin. And surely these old oaks 

will murmur thee 
Marian along with Robin. I am most 

happy — 



Art thou not mine ? — and happy that our 

King 
Is here again, never I trust to roam 
So far again, but dwell among his own. 
Strike up a stave, my masters, all is 

well. 

SONG WHILE THEY DANCE A COUNTRY 
DANCE 

Now the King is home again, and nevermore to 

roam again, 
Now the King is home again, the King will have 

his own again. 
Home again, home again, and each will have his 

own again, 
All the birds in merry Sherwood sing and sing 

him home again. 



DEMETER 

AND OTHER POEMS 



TO THE MARQUIS OF DUF- 
FERIN AND AVA 



At times our Britain cannot rest, 

At times her steps are swift and rash ; 
She moving, at her girdle clash 

The golden keys of East and West. 



Not swift or rash, when late she lent 
The sceptres of her West, her East, 
To one, that ruling has increased 

Her greatness and her self-content. 



Your rule has made the people love 
Their ruler. Your viceregal days 
Have added fulness to the phrase 

Of ' Gauntlet in the velvet glove.' 



But since your name will grow with Time, 
Not all, as honouring your fair fame 
Of Statesman, have I made the name 

A golden portal to my rhyme : 



But more, that you and yours may know 
From me and mine, how dear a debt 
We owed you, and are owing yet 

To you and yours, and still would owe. 



For he — your India was his Fate, 
And drew him over sea to you — 
He fain had ranged her thro' and thro', 

To serve her myriads and the State, — 



A soul that, watch'd from earliest youth. 
And on thro' many a brightening year, 



Had never swerved for craft or fear, 
By one side-path, from simple truth ; 



Who might have chased and clasp 
Renown 
And caught her chaplethere — and there 
In haunts of jungle-poison'd air 

The flame of life went wavering down ; 



But ere he left your fatal shore, 
And lay on that funereal boat, 
Dying, ' Unspeakable ' he wrote 

' Their kindness,' and he wrote no more; 



And sacred is the latest word ; 

And now the Was, the Might-have- 
been, 

And those lone rites I have not seen. 
And one drear sound I have not heard, 



Are dreams that scarce will let me be, 
Not there to bid my boy farewell. 
When That within the coffin fell. 

Fell — and flash'd into the Red Sea, 

XII 

Beneath a hard Arabian moon 

And alien stars. To question, why 
The sons before the fathers die, 

Not mine ! and I may meet him soon ; 



But while my life's late eve endures. 
Nor settles into hueless gray. 
My memories of his briefer day 

Will mix with love for you and yours. 



842 



ON THE JUBILEE OF QUEEN VICTORIA 



843 



ON THE JUBILEE OF QUEEN 
VICTORIA 



Fifty times the rose has flower'd and 

faded, 
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, 
Since our Queen assumed the globe, the 

sceptre. 

II 

She beloved for a kindliness 
Rare in Fable or History, 
Queen, and Empress of India, 
Crown'd so long with a diadem 
Never worn by a worthier, 
Now with prosperous auguries 
Comes at last to the bounteous 
Crowning year of her Jubilee. 



Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot, 
Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglorious, 
All is gracious, gentle, great and Queenly. 



You then joyfully, all of you. 
Set the mountain aflame to-night. 
Shoot your stars to the firmament. 
Deck your houses, illuminate 
All your towns for a festival. 
And in each let a multitude 
Loyal, each, to the heart of it. 
One full voice of allegiance. 
Hail the fair Ceremonial 
Of this year of her Jubilee. 



Queen, as true to womanhood as Queen- 
hood, 
Glorying in the glories of her people. 
Sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest ! 



You, that wanton in affluence, 
Spare not now to be bountiful, 
Call your poor to regale with you, 
All the lowly, the destitute, 



Make their neighbourhood health- 
fuller. 
Give your gold to the Hospital, 
Let the weary be comforted. 
Let the needy be banqueted. 
Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice 
At this glad Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 



Henry's fifty years are all in shadow, 
Gray with distance Edward's fifty sum- 
mers, 
Ev'n her Grandsire's fifty half forgotten. 

VIII 

You, the Patriot Architect, 
You that shape for Eternity, 
Raise a stately memorial. 
Make it regally gorgeous. 
Some Imperial Institute, 
Rich in symbol, in ornament. 
Which may speak to the centuries, 
All the centuries after us. 
Of this great Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 

IX 

Fifty years of ever - broadening Com- 
merce ! 
Fifty years of ever-brightening Science ! 
Fifty years of ever-widening Empire ! 



You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, 
You, the Lord-territorial, 
You, the Lord-manufacturer, 
You, the hardy, laborious. 
Patient children of Albion, 
You, Canadian, Indian, 
Australasian, African, 
All your hearts be in harmony, 
All your voices in unison. 
Singing ' Hail to the glorious 
Golden year of her Jubilee ! ' 



Are there thunders moaning in the dis- 
tance ? 



844 TO PROFESSOR J EBB DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE 



Are there spectres moving in the dark- 
ness? 

Trust the Hand of Light will lead her 
people, 

Till the thunders pass, the spectres 
vanish, 

And the Light is Victor, and the dark- 
ness 

Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages. 



TO PROFESSOR JEBB 
WITH THE Following Poem 

Fair things are slow to fade away. 
Bear witness you, that yesterday i 

From out the Ghost of Pindar in 
you 
Roll'd an Olympian ; and they say 2 

That here the torpid mummy wheat 
Of Egypt bore a grain as sweet 

As that which gilds the glebe of 
England, 
Sunn'd with a summer of milder heat. 

So may this legend for awhile, 
If greeted by your classic smile, 

Tho' dead in its Trinacrian Enna, 
Blossom again on a colder isle. 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE 
(In Enna) 

Faint as a climate-changing bird that 

flies 
All night across the darkness, and at 

dawn 
Falls on the threshold of her native land, 
And can no more, thou camest, O my 

child, 
Led upward by the God of ghosts and 

dreams. 
Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and 

dumb 

1 In Bologna. 
2 They say, for the fact is doubtful. 



With passing thro' at once from state to 

state, 
Until I brought thee hither, that the 

day, 
\^^len here thy hands let fall the gather'd 

flower, 
Might break thro' clouded memories 

once again 
On thy lost self. A sudden nightingale 
Saw thee, and flash'd into a frolic of 

song 
And welcome ; and a gleam as of the 

moon. 
When first she peers along the tremulous 

deep. 
Fled wavering o'er thy face, and chased 

away 
That shadow of a likeness to the king 
Of shadows, thy dark mate. Persephone ! 
Queen of the dead no more — my child ! 

Thine eyes 
Again were human-godlike, and the Sun 
Burst from a swimming fleece of winter 

gray, 
And robed thee in his day from head to 

feet — 
' Mother ! ' and I was folded in thine 

arms. 

Child, those imperial, disimpassion'd 
eyes 
Awed even me at first, thy mother — eyes 
That oft had seen the serpent-wanded 

power 
Draw downward into Hades with his 

drift 
Of flickering spectres, lighted from below 
By the red race of fiery Phlegethon ; 
But when before have Gods or men be- 
held 
The Life that had descended re-arise. 
And lighted from above him by the Sun? 
So mighty was the mother's childless cry, 
A cry that rang thro' Hades, Earth, and 
Heaven ! 

So in this pleasant vale we stand again, 
The field of Enna, now once more ablaze 
With flowers that brighten as thy foot- 
step falls, 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE 



845 



All flowers — but for one black blur of 

earth 
Left by that closing chasm, thro' which 

the car 
Of dark Aidoneus rising rapt thee 

hence. 
And here, my child, tho' folded in thine 

arms, 
I feel the deathless heart of motherhood 
Within me shudder, lest the naked glebe 
Should yawn once more into the gulf, 

and thence 
The shrilly whinnpngs of the team of 

Hell, 
Ascending, pierce the glad and songful 

air. 
And all at once their arch'd necks, mid- 

night-maned, 
Jet upward thro' the mid-day blossom. 

No ! 
For, see, thy foot has touch'd it ; all the 

space 
Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself 

afresh, 
And breaks into the crocus-purple hour 
That saw thee vanish. 

Child, when thou wert gone, 
I envied human wives, and nested birds, 
Yea, the cubb'd lioness ; went in search 

of thee 
Thro' many a palace, many a cot, and 

gave 
Thy breast to ailing infants in the night, 
And set the mother waking in amaze 
To find her sick one whole ; and forth 

again 
Among the wail of midnight winds, and 

cried, 
* Where is my loved one ? Wherefore 

do ye wail ? ' 
And out from all the night an answer 

shrill'd, 
' We know not, and we know not why we 

wail.' 
I climb'd on all the cliffs of all the seas. 
And ask'd the waves that moan about 

the world 
' Where ? do ye make your moaning for 

my child ? ' 



And round from all the world the voices 

came 
' We know not, and we know not why 

we moan.' 
' Where'? and I stared from every eagle- 
peak, 
I thridded the black heart of all the 

woods, 
I peer'd thro' tomb and cave, and in the 

storms 
Of Autumn swept across the city, and 

heard 
The murmur of their temples chanting 

me, 
Me, me, the desolate Mother ! ' WTiere'? 

— and turn'd. 
And fled by many a waste, forlorn of 

man. 
And grieved for man thro' all my grief 

for thee, — 
The jungle rooted in his shatter'd hearth. 
The serpent coil'd about his broken shaft. 
The scorpion crawling over naked 

skulls ; — 
I saw the tiger in the ruin'd fane 
Spring from his fallen God, but trace of 

thee 
I saw not ; and far on, and, following out 
A league of labyrinthine darkness, came 
On three gray heads beneath a gleaming 

rift. 
' Where ' ? and I heard one voice from 

all the three 
' We know not, for we spin the lives of 

men, 
And not of Gods, and know not why we 

spin ! 
There is a Fate beyond us,' Nothing 

knew. 

Last as the likeness of a dying man. 
Without his knowledge, from him flits to 

warn 
A far-off friendship that he comes no 

more. 
So he, the God of dreams, who heard 

my cry. 
Drew from thyself the likeness of thyself 
Without thy knowledge, and thy shadow 

past 



DE METER AND PERSEPHONE 



Before ine, crying ' The Bright one in 

the highest 
Is brother of the Dark one in the lowest, 
And Bright and Dark have sworn that I, 

the child 
Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee, 

the Power 
That lifts her buried life from gloom to 

bloom, 
Should be for ever and for evermore 
The Bride of Darkness.' 

So the Shadow wail'd. 
Then I, Earth-Goddess, cursed the Gods 

of Heaven. 
I would not mingle with their feasts ; to 

me 
Their nectar smack'd of hemlock on the 

lips. 
Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite. 
The man, that only lives and loves an 

hour, 
Seem'd nobler than their hard Eternities. 
My quick tears kill'd the flower, my 

ravings hush'd 
The bird, and lost in utter grief I fail'd 
To send my life thro' olive-yard and vine 
And golden grain, my gift to helpless 

man. 
Rain-rotten died the wheat, the barley- 
spears 
Were hollow-husk'd, the leaf fell, and 

the sun, 
Pale at my grief, drew down before his 

time 
Sickening, and ^tna kept her winter 
snow. 
Then He, the brother of this Darkness, 
He 
Who still is highest, glancing from his 

height 
On earth a fruitless fallow, when he 

miss'd 
The wonted steam of sacrifice, the praise 
And prayer of men, decreed that thou 

should'st dwell 
For nine white moons of each whole year 

with me, 
Three dark ones in the shadow with thy 
King. 



Once more the reaper in the gleam oi 

dawn 
Will see me by the landmark far away, 
Blessing his field, or seated in the dusk 
Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor, 
Rejoicing in the harvest and the grange. 
Yet I, Earth -Goddess, am but ill- 
content 
With them, who still are highest. Those 

gray heads, 
What meant they by their ' Fate beyond 

the Fates' 
But younger kindlier Gods to bear us 

down. 
As we bore down the Gods before us ? 

Gods, 
To quench, not hurl the thunderbolt, to 

stay. 
Not spread the plague, the famine ; Gods 

indeed, 
To send the noon into the night and 

break 
The sunless halls of Hades into Heaven? 
Till thy dark lord accept and love the Sun, 
And all the Shadow die into the Light, 
When thou shalt dwell the whole bright 

year with me, 
And souls of men, who grew beyond 

their race. 
And made themselves as Gods against 

the fear 
Of Death and Hell ; and thou that hast 

from men, 
As Queen of Death, that worship which 

is Fear, 
Henceforth, as having risen from out the 

dead, 
Shalt ever send thy life along with mine 
From buried grain thro' springing blade, 

and bless 
Their garner'd Autumn also, reap with me, 
Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns of 

Earth 
The worship which is Love, and see no 

more 
The Stone, the Wheel, the dimly- 
glimmering lawns 
Of that Elysium, all the hateful fires 
Of torment, and the shadowy warrior glide 
Along the silent field of Asphodel. 



OIVI) ROA 



847 



OWD ROAi 

Naay, noa mander ^ o' use to be callin' 

'im Roa, Roa, Roa, 
Fur the dog's stoan-deaf, an' e's blind, 'e 

can naither stan' nor goa. 

But I means fur to maake 'is owd aage 

as 'appy as iver I can, 
Fur I owas owd Roaver moor nor I iver 

owad mottal man. 

Thou's rode of 'is back when a babby, 
afoor thou was gotten too owd, 

Fur 'e'd fetch an' carry Hke owt, 'e was 
alius as good as gowd. 

Eh, but 'e'd fight wi' a will ruhen 'e 
fowt ; 'e could howd ^ 'is oan, 

An' Roa was the dog as knaw'd when 
an' wheere to bury his boane. 

An' 'e kep his head hoop like a king, an' 
'e'd niver not down wi' 'is taail. 

Fur 'e'd niver done nowt to be shaamed 
on, when we was i' Howlaby 
Daale. 

An' 'e sarved me sa well when 'e lived, 
that, Dick, when 'e cooms to be 
dead, 

I thinks as I'd like fur to hev soom soort 
of a sarvice read. 

Fur 'e's moor good sense na the Parlia- 
ment man 'at stans fur us 'ere. 

An' I'd voat fur 'im, my oan sen, if 'e 
could but Stan fur the Shere. 

* Faaithful an' True ' — them words be i' 
Scriptur — an' Faaithful an' True 

Ull be fun' ^ upo' four short legs ten times 
fur one upo' two. 

An' maaybe they'll walk upo' two but I 
knaws they runs upo' four,^ — 

Bedtime, Dicky ! but waait till tha 'ears 
it be strikin' the hour. 



1 Old Rover. 
* Found. 



2 Mariner. 3 Hold. 

5 'Ou' as in 'house.' 



Fur I wants to tell tha o' Roa when we 

lived i' Howlaby Daale, 
Ten year sin — Naay — naay ! tha mun 

nobbut hev' one glass of aale. 

Straange an' owd-farran'd ^ the 'ouse, an' 
belt 2 long afoor my daay 

Wi' haafe o' the chimleys a-twizzen'd^ 
an' twined like a band o' haay. 

The fellers as maakes them picturs, 'ud 
coom at the fall o' the year. 

An' sattle their ends upo' stools to pictur 
the door-poorch theere, 

An' the Heagle 'as hed two heads stannin' 
theere o' the brokken stick ; * 

An' they niver 'ed seed sich ivin' ^ as 
graw'd hall ower the brick ; 

An' theere i' the 'ouse one night — but it's 

down, an' all on it now 
Goan into mangles an' tonups,^ an' 

raaved slick thruf by the plow — 

Theere, when the 'ouse wur a house, one 
night I wur sittin' aloan, 

Wi' Roaver athurt my feeat, an' sleeapin 
still as a stoan, 

Of a Christmas Eave, an' as cowd as 
this, an' the midders^ as white. 

An' the fences all on 'em bolster'd oop 
wi' the windle ^ that night ; 

An' the cat wur a -sleeapin alongside 
Roaver, but I wur awaake. 

An' smoakin' an' thinkin' o' things — 
Doant maake thysen sick wi' the 
caake. 

Fur the men ater supper 'ed sung their 
songs an' 'ed 'ed their beer. 

An' 'ed goan their waays ; ther was 
nobbut three, an' noan on 'em 
theere. 

1 ' Owd-farran'd,' old-fashioned. 2 Built. 

3 ' Twizzen'd,' twisted. 4 On a staff raguli, 

5 Ivy. 6 Mangolds and turnips. 

7 Meadows. 8 Drifted snow. 



848 



OJVD ROA 



They was all on 'em fear'd o' the Ghoast 
an' dussn't not sleeap i' the 'ouse, 

But Dicky, the Ghoast moastlinsi was 
nobbut a rat or a mouse. 

An' I loookt out wonst ^ at the night, 
an' the daale was all of a thaw. 

Fur I seed the beck coomin' down like 
a long black snaake i' the snaw, 



An' 



An' 



I heard great heaps o' the snaw 
slushin' down fro' the bank to 
the beck, 

then as I stood i' the doorwaay, I 
feeald it drip o' my neck. 



Saw I turn'd in agean, an' I thowt o' 
the good owd times 'at was goan, 

An' the munney they maade by the war, 
an' the times 'at was coomin' on ; 

Fur I thowt if the Staate was a gawin' 
to let in furriners' wheat, 

Howiver was British farmers to stan' 
agean o' their fee'at. 

Howiver was I fur to find my rent an' 

to paay my men ? 
An' all along o' the feller ^ as turn'd 'is 

back of hissen. 

Thou slep i' the chaumber above us, we 
couldn't ha' 'eard tha call, 

Sa Moother 'ed tell'd ma to bring tha 
down, an' thy craadle an' all ; 

Fur the gell o' the farm 'at slep wi' tha 
then 'ed gotten wer leave, 

Fur to goa that night to 'er foalk by cause 
o' the Christmas Eave ; 



But 



when 



I clean forgot tha, my lad, 
Moother 'ed gotten to bed. 
An' I slep i' my chair hup-on-end, an' the 
Freea Traade runn'd i' my 'ead, 

Till I dream'd 'at Squire walkt in, an' I 
says to him 'Squire, ya're laiite,' 

Then I seed at 'is faace wur as red as the 
Yule-block theer i' the graate. 

1 * Moastlins,' for the most part, generally. 
2 Once. 3 Peel. 



An' 'e says ' can ya paay me the rent to- 
night ? ' an' I says to 'im ' Noa,' 

An' 'e cotch'd howd hard o' my hairm,i 
' Then hout to-night tha shall goa.' 

' Tha'll niver,' says I, 'be a-turnin ma 
hout upo' Christmas Eave ? ' 

Then I waaked an' I fun it was Roaver 
a-tuggin' an' tearin' my slieave. 

An' I thowt as 'e'd goan clean- wud,^ fur 
I noawaays knaw'd 'is intent ; 

An' I says 'Git awaay, ya beast,' an' I 
fetcht 'im a kick an' 'e went. 

Then 'e tummled up stairs, fur I 'eard 
'im, as if 'e'd 'a brokken 'is neck. 

An' I'd clear forgot, little Dicky, thy 
chaumber door wouldn't sneck ; ^ 

An' I slep' i' my chair agean wi' my hairni 
hingin' down to the floor, 

An' I thowt it was Roaver a-tuggin' an' 
tearin' me wuss nor afoor. 

An' I thowt 'at I kick'd 'im ageiin, but I 
kick'd thy Moother istead. 

' What arta snorin' theere fur ? the house 
is afire,' she said. 

Thy Moother 'ed beiin a-naggin' about 

the gell o' the farm. 
She offens 'ud spy summut wrong when 

there warn't not a mossel o' harm ; 

An' she didn't not solidly mean I wur 
gawin' that waay to the bad. 

Fur the gell ^ was as howry a trollope 
as iver traapes'd i' the squad. 

But Moother was free of 'er tongue, as I 
offens 'ev tell'd 'er mysen, 

Sa I kep i' my chair, fur I thowt she 
was nobbut a-rilin' ma then. 

An' I says ' I'd be good to tha, Bess, ii 
tha'd onywaays let ma be good,' 

1 Arm. 2 Mad. 3 Latch. 

4 The girl was as dirty a slut as ever trudged 
in the mud, but there is a sense of slatternliness 
in ' traapes'd ' which is not expressed in ' trudged.' 



OTVD ROA 



849 



But she skelpt ma haafe ower i' the chair, 
an' screead like a Howl gone 
wud 1 — 

' Ya mun run fur the lether.^ Git oop, 
if ya're ony waays good for owt. ' 

And I says ' If I beant noawaays — not 
nowadaays — good fur nowt — 

Yit I beant sich a Nowt ^ of all Nowts 
as 'uU hallus do as 'e's bid.' 

* But the stairs is afire,' she said ; then I 
seed 'er a-cryin', I did. 

An' she beald ' Ya mun saave little Dick, 
an' be sharp about it an' all,' 

Sa I runs to the yard fur a lether, an' 
sets 'im agean the wall. 

An' I claums an' I mashes the winder 
hin, when I gits to the top. 

But the heat druv hout i' my heyes till I 
feald mysen ready to drop. 

Thy Moother was howdin' the lether, an' 
tellin' me not to be skeard. 

An' I wasn't afeard, or I thinks least- 
waays as I wasn't afeard ; 

But I couldn't see fur the smoake wheere 
thou was a-liggin, my lad. 

An' Roaver was theere i' the chaumber 
a-yowlin' an' yaupin' like mad ; 

An' thou was a-bealin' likewise, an' a- 
squealin', as if tha was bit. 

An' it wasn't a bite but a burn, fur the 
merk's"^ o' thy shou'der yit ; 

Then I call'd out Roa, Roa, Roa, thaw 
I didn't haiife think as 'e'd 'ear. 

But ''e coo)7i d thruf the fire wV my bairn 
z' Hs 1)1 out h to the winder theere ! 

He coom'd like a Hangel o' marcy as 
soon as 'e 'eard 'is naame. 

Or like tother Hangel i' Scriptur 'at 
summun seed i' the flaame, 

1 She half overturned me and shrieked like an 
owl gone mad. 2 Ladder. 

2 A thoroughly insignificant or worthless 
person. * Mark. 



When summun 'ed hax'd fur a son, an' 
'e promised a son to she. 

An' Roa was as good as the Hangel i' 
saavin' a son fur me. 

Sa I browt tha down, an' I says ' I mun 
gaw up agean fur Roa.' 

' Gaw up agean fur the varmint ? ' I 
tell'd 'er ' Yeas I mun goa. ' 

An' I claumb'd up agean to the winder, 
an' clemm'd ^ owd Roa by the 'ead, 

An' 'is 'air coom'd off i' my 'ands an' I 
taaked 'im at fust fur dead ; 

Fur 'e smell'd like a herse a-singein', an' 
seeam'd as blind as a poop. 

An' haafe on 'im bare as a bublin'.^ I 
couldn't wakken 'im oop. 

But I browt 'im down, an' we got to the 
barn, fur the barn wouldn't burn 

Wi' the wind blawin' hard tother waay, 
an' the wind wasn't like to turn. 

An' / kep a-callin' o' Roa till 'e waggled 

'is taail fur a bit, 
But the cocks kep a-crawin' an' crawin' 

all night, an' I 'ears 'em yit ; 

An' the dogs was a-yowlin' all round, and 
thou was a-squealin' thysen. 

An' Moother was naggin' an' groanin' an' 
moanin' an' naggin' agean ; 

An' I 'eard the bricks an' the baulks ^ 
rummle down when the roof gev 
waay. 

Fur the fire was a-raagin' an' raavin' an' 
roarin' like judgment daay. 

Warm enew theere sewer-ly, but the barn 

was as cowd as owt. 
An' we cuddled and huddled togither, an' 

happt ^ wersens oop as we mowt. 

An' I browt Roa round, but Moother 'ed 
bean sa soak'd wi' the thaw 

'At she cotch'd 'er death o' cowd that 
night, poor soul, i' the straw. 

1 Clutched. 

2 ' Bubbling,' a young unfledged bird. 

3 Beams. ^ Wrapt ourselves. 

3 I 



850 



VASTNESS 



Haafe o' the parish runn'd oop when the 
rigtree ^ was tummUn' in — 

Too laate — but it's all ower now — hall 
hower — an' ten year sin ; 

Too laate, tha mun git tha to bed, but 
ril coom an' I'll squench the light, 

Fur we moant 'ev naw moor fires — and 
soa little Dick, good-night. 

1 The beam that runs along the roof of the 
house just beneath the ridge. 



VASTNESS 



Many a hearth upon our dark globe 
sighs after many a vanish'd face, 

Many a planet by many a sun may roll 
with the dust of a vanish'd race. 



Raving politics, never at rest — as this 
poor earth's pale history runs, — 

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the 
gleam of a million million of suns ? 

HI 

Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, 
truthless violence mourn'd by the 
Wise, 

Thousands of voices drowning his own in 
a popular torrent of lies upon lies ; 



Stately purposes, valour in battle, glorious 
annals of army and fleet. 

Death for the right cause, death for the 
wrong cause, trumpets of victory, 
groans of defeat ; 



Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, 

and Charity setting the martyr 

aflame ; 
Thraldom who walks with the banner of 

Freedom, and recks not to ruin a 

realm in her name. 



Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the 

gloom of doubts that darken the 

schools ; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her 

hand, follow'd up by her vassal 

legion of fools ; 

VII 

Trade flying over a thousand seas with 
her spice and her vintage, her silk 
and her corn ; 

Desolate ofiing, sailorless harbours, 
famishing populace, wharves for- 
lorn ; 



Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise : 
gloom of the evening. Life at a 
close ; 

Pleasure who flaunts on her wide down- 
way with her flying robe and her 
poison'd rose ; 



Pain, that has crawl'd from the corpse of 

Pleasure, a worm which writhes 

all day, and at night 
Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, 

and stings him back to the curse 

of the light ; 



Wealth with his wines and his wedded 

harlots ; honest Poverty, bare to 

the bone ; 
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; 

Flattery gilding the rift in a 

throne ; 



Fame blowing out from her golden 
trumpef a jubilant challenge to 
Time and to Fate ; 

Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on 
all the laurel'd graves of the Great ; 



THE RING 



851 



Love for the maiden, crown'd with 
marriage, no regrets for aught 
that has been, 

Household happiness, gracious children, 
debtless competence, golden mean ; 



National hatreds of whole generations, 

and pigmy spites of the village 

spire ; 
Vows that will last to the last death - 

ruckle, and vows that are snapt 

in a moment of fire ; 



He that has lived for the lust of the 

minute, and died in the doing it, 

flesh without mind ; 
He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, 

till Self died out in the love of 

his kind ; 



Spring and Summer and Autumn and 
Winter, and all these old revolu- 
tions of earth ; 

All new -old revolutions of Empire — 
change of the tide — what is all of 
it worth ? 

XVI 

What the philosophies, all the sciences, 
poesy, varying voices of prayer ? 

All that is noblest, all that is basest, all 
that is filthy with all that is fair ? 

XVII 

What is it all, if we all of us end but in 
being our own corpse-coffins at 
last, 

Swallow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, 
drown'd in the deeps of a mean- 
ingless Past ? 



What but a murmur of gnats in the 
gloom, or a moment's anger of 
bees in their hive ? — 



Peace, let it be ! for I loved him, and 
love him for ever : the dead are 
not dead but alive. 



Detiicaten to tlje i|)on. 31. ^\x$<i>z\\ 
ILotoeU 

THE RING 

Miriam and her Father 

Miriajn [singing) 

Mellow moon of heaven, 

Bright in blue. 
Moon of married hearts, 

Hear me, you ! 

Twelve times in the year 

Bring me bliss, 
Globing Honey Moons 

Bright as this. 

Moon, you fade at times 

From the night. 
Young again you grow 

Out of sight. 

Silver crescent-curve, 

Coming soon, 
Globe again, and make 

Honey Moon. 

Shall not my love last, 

Moon, with you, 
For ten thousand years 

Old and new ? 

Father. And who was he with such 

love-drunken eyes 
They made a thousand honey moons of 

one? 
Miriam. The prophet of his own, my 

Hubert — his 
The words, and mine the setting. ' Air 

and Words,' 
Said Hubert, when I sang the song, ' are 

bride 
And bridegroom.' Does it please you ? 



852 



THE RING 



Father. Mainly, child, 

Because I hear your Mother's voice in 
yours, 

She , why, you shiver tho' the wind 

is west 
With all the warmth of summer. 

Miriam. Well, I felt 

On a sudden I know not what, a breath 

that past 
With all the cold of winter. 

Father {inuttering to himself). Even 
so. 
The Ghost in Man, the Ghost that once 

was Man, 
But cannot wholly free itself from Man, 
Are calling to each other thro' a dawn 
Stranger than earth has ever seen ; the 

veil 
Is rending, and the Voices of the day 
Are heard across the Voices of the dark. 
No sudden heaven, nor sudden hell, for 

man. 
But thro' the Will of One who knows 

and rules — 
And utter knowledge is but utter love — 
-Ionian Evolution, swift or slow, 
Thro' all the Spheres — an ever opening 

height, 
An ever lessening earth — and she perhaps, 
My Miriam, breaks her latest earthly link 
With me to-day. 

Aliriam. You speak so low, what is it ? 
Your ' Miriam breaks ' — is making a new 

link 
Breaking an old one ? 

Father. No, for we, my child, 

Have been till now each other's all-in-all. 
Miriam. And you the lifelong guard- 
ian of the child. 
Father. I, and one other whom you 

have not known, 
Miriam. And who ? what other ? 
Father. Whither are you bound ? 

For Naples which we only left in May ? 
Miriam. No ! father, Spain, but 
Hubert brings me home 
With April and the swallow. Wish me 

joy! 
Father. What need to wish when 
Hubert weds in you 



The heart of Love, and you the soul of 

Truth 
In Hubert ? 

Miriam. Tho' you used to call me 
once 
The lonely maiden-Princess of the wood, 
Who meant to sleep her hundred sum- 
mers out 
Before a kiss should wake her. 

Father. Ay, but now 

Your fairy Prince has found you, take 
this ring. 
Miriajn. * lo t' amo ' — and these dia- 
monds — beautiful ! 
' From Walter,' and for me from you then? 
Father. Well, 

One way for Miriam. 

Miriajn. Miriam am I not ? 

Father. This ring bequeath'd you by 
your mother, child, 
Was to be given you — such her dying 

wish — 
Given on the morning when you came of 

age 
Or on the day you married. Both the 

days 
Now close in one. The ring is doubly 

yours. 
Why do you look so gravely at the tower? 
Miriam. I never saw it yet so all 
ablaze 
With creepers crimsoning to the pinnacles, 
As if perpetual sunset linger'd there. 
And all ablaze too in the lake below ! 
And how the birds that circle round the 

tower 
Are cheeping to each other of their flight 
To summer lands ! 

Father. And that has made you grave ? 
Fly — care not. Birds and brides must 

leave the nest. 
Child, I am happier in your happiness 
Than in mine own. 

Mii'iam. It is not that ! 

Father. What else ? 

Miriam. That chamber in the tower. 
Father. What chamber, child } 

Your nurse is here ? 

Miriam. My Mother's nurse and mine. 
She comes to dress me in my bridal veil. 



THE RING 



853 



Father. What did she say ? 
Aliriam. She said, that you and I 

Had been abroad for my poor health so 

long 
She fear'd I had forgotten her, and I 

ask'd 
About my Mother, and she said, ' Thy 

hair 

Is golden like thy jNIother's, not so fine.' 

Fathei: What then ? what more ? 

Aliriam. She said — perhaps indeed 

She wander'd, having wander'd now so 

far 
Beyond the common date of death — that 

you, 
When I was smaller than the statuette 
Of my dear Mother on your bracket here — 
You took me to that chamber in the tower. 
The topmost — a chest there, by which 

you knelt — 
And there were books and dresses — left 

to me, 
A ring too which you kiss'd, and I, she 

said, 
I babbled, Mother, Mother — as I used 
To prattle to her picture — stretch'd my 

hands 
As if I saw her ; then a woman came 
And caught me from my nurse. I hear 

her yet — 
A sound of anger like a distant storm. 
Father. Garrulous old crone. 
Mij'iavi. Poor nurse ! 

Father. I bad her keep, 

Like a seal'd book, all mention of the 

ring, 
For I myself would tell you all to-day. 
Miriam. ' She too might speak to- 
day,' she mumbled. Still, 
I scarce have learnt the title of your book, 
But you will turn the pages. 

Father. Ay, to-day ! 

I brought you to that chamber on your 

third 
September birthday with your nurse, and 

felt 
An icy breath play on me, while I stoopt 
To take and kiss the ring. 

Miriam. This very ring 

lo t' amo ? 



Father: Yes, for some wild hope 

was mine 
That, in the misery of my married life, 
Miriam your Mother might appear to me. 
She came to you, not me. The storm, 

you hear 
Far-off, is Muriel — your stepmother's 

voice. 
Miriam. Vext, that you thought my 

Mother came to me ? 
Or at my crying ' Mother ' ? or to find 
My Mother's diamonds hidden from her 

there, 
Like worldly beauties in the Cell, not 

shown 
To dazzle all that see them ? 

Father. Wait a while. 

Your Mother and stepmother — Miriam 

Erne 
And Muriel Erne — the two were cousins 

— lived 
With Muriel's mother on the down, that 

sees 
A thousand squares of corn and meadow, 

far 
As the gray deep, a landscape which 

your eyes 
Have many a time ranged over when a 

babe. 
Miriam. I climb'd the hill with 

Hubert yesterday. 
And from the thousand squares, one 

silent voice 
Came on the wind, and seem'd to say 

' Again. ' 
We saw far off an old forsaken house, 
Then home, and past the ruin'd mill. 

Father. And there 

I found these cousins often by the brook, 
For Miriam sketch'd and Muriel threw 

the fly ; 
The girls of equal age, but one was fair, 
And one was dark, and both were beauti- 
ful. 
No voice for either spoke within my heart 
Then, for the surface eye, that only doats 
On outward beauty, glancing from the one 
To the other, knew not that which 

pleased it most, 
The raven ringlet or the gold ; but both 



854 



THE RING 



Were dowerless, and myself, I used to 

walk 
This Terrace — morbid, melancholy; mine 
And yet not mine the hall, the farm, the 

field ; 
For all that ample woodland whisper'd 

' debt,' 
The brook that feeds this lakelet mur- 

mur'd ' debt,' 
And in yon arching avenue of old elms, 
Tho' mine, not mine, I heard the sober 

rook 
And carrion crow cry ' Mortgage.' 

Miriam. Father's fault 

Visited on the children ! 

Father. Ay, but then 

A kinsman, dying, summon'd me to 

Rome — 
He left me wealth — and while I journey'd 

hence. 
And saw the world fly by me like a dream. 
And while I communed with my truest 

self, 
I woke to all of truest in myself, 
Till, in the gleam of those mid-summer 

dawns. 
The form of Muriel faded, and the face 
Of Miriam grew upon me, till I knew ; 
And past and future mix'd in Heaven 

and made 
The rosy twilight of a perfect day. 

Miriam. So glad ? no tear for him, 

who left you wealth, 
Your kinsman ? 

Father. I had seen the man but once ; 
He loved my name not me ; and then I 

pass'd 
Home, and thro' Venice, where a jeweller. 
So far gone down, or so far up in life, 
That he was nearing his own hundred, 

sold 
This ring to me, then laugh'd ' the ring 

is weird.' 
And weird and worn and wizard -like was 

he. 
* Why weird ? ' I ask'd him ; and he said 

' The souls 
Of two repentant Lovers guard the ring ' ; 
Then with a ribald twinkle in his bleak 

eyes — 



' And if you give the ring to any maid. 
They still remember what it cost them 

here, 
And bind the maid to love you by the 

ring; _ 
And if the ring were stolen from the 

maid, 
The theft were death or madness to the 

thief. 
So sacred those Ghost Lovers hold the 

gift.' 
And then he told their legend : 

' Long ago 
Two lovers parted by a scurrilous tale 
Had quarrell'd, till the man repenting 

sent 
This ring " lo t' amo" to his best beloved, 
And sent it on her birthday. She in 

wrath 
Return'd it on her birthday, and that day 
His death-day, when, half-frenzied by the 

ring. 
He wildly fought a rival suitor, him 
The causer of that scandal, fought and 

fell; 
And she that came to part them all too 

late, 
And found a corpse and silence, drew the 

ring 
From his dead finger, wore it till her 

death. 
Shrined him within the temple of her 

heart. 
Made every moment of her after life 
A virgin victim to his memory, 
And dying rose, and rear'd her arms, and 

cried 
" I see him, lo t' amo, lo t' amo." ' 
Miriam. Legend or true? so tender 

should be true ! 
D'd he believe it ? did you ask him ? 

Father. Ay ! 

But that half skeleton, like a barren 

ghost 
From out the fleshless world of spirits, 

laugh'd : 
A hollow laughter ! 

Miriajn. Vile, so near the ghost 

Himself, to laugh at love in death ! But 

you? 



THE RING 



855 



Father. Well, as the bygone lover 

thro' this ring 
Had sent his cry for her forgiveness, I 
Would call thro' this ' lo t' amo ' to the 

heart 
Of Miriam ; then I bad the man en- 
grave 
' From Walter ' on the ring, and send it 

— wrote 
Name, surname, all as clear as noon, but 

he— 
Some younger hand must have engraven 

the ring — 
His fingers were so stiffen'd by the frost 
Of seven and ninety winters, that he 

scrawl'd 
A ' Miriam ' that might seem a ' Muriel ' ; 
And Muriel claim'd and open'd what I 

meant 
For Miriam, took the ring, and flaunted 

it 
Before that other whom I loved and love. 
A mountain stay'd me here, a minster 

there, 
A galleried palace, or a battlefield. 
Where stood the sheaf of Peace ; but — 

coming home — 
And on your Mother's birthday — all but 

yours — 
A week betwixt — and when the tower as 

now 
Was all ablaze with crimson to the roof, 
And all ablaze too plunging in the lake 
Head -foremost — who were those that 

stood between 
The tower and that rich phantom of the 

tower ? 
Muriel and Miriam, each in white, and 

like 
May -blossoms in niid autumn — was it 

they? 
A light shot upward on them from the 

lake. 
What sparkled there ? whose hand was 

that ? they stood 
So close together. I am not keen of 

sight. 
But coming nearer — Muriel had the ring — 
* O Miriam ! have you given your ring to 

her? 



O Miriam ! ' Miriam redden'd, Muriel 

clench'd 
The hand that wore it, till I cried again : 
' O Miriam, if you love me take the ring !' 
She glanced at me, at Muriel, and was 

mute. 
' Nay, if you cannot love me, let it be.' 
Then — Muriel standing ever statue-like — 
She turn'd, and in her soft imperial way 
And saying gently : ' Muriel, by your 

leave,' 
Unclosed the hand, and from it drew the 

ring, 
And gave it me, who pass'd it down her 

own, 
' lo t' amo, all is well then.' Muriel fled. 
Miriam. Poor Muriel ! 
Father. Ay, poor Muriel 

when you hear 
What follows ! Miriam loved me from 

the first. 
Not thro' the ring ; but on her marriage- 
morn 
This birthday, death-day, and betrothal 

ring. 
Laid on her table overnight, was gone ; 
And after hours of search and doubt and 

threats. 
And hubbub, Muriel enter'd with it, 

* See !— 
Found in a chink of that old moulder'd 

floor ! ' 
My Miriam nodded with a pitying smile, 
As who should say ' that those who lose 

can find.' 
Then I and she were married for a 

year. 
One year without a storm, or even a 

cloud ; 
And you my Miriam born within the 

year ; 
And she my Miriam dead within the 

year. 
I sat beside her dying, and she gaspt : 
* The books, the miniature, the lace are 

hers. 
My ring too when she comes of age, or 

when 
She marries ; you — you loved me, kept 

your word. 



856 



THE RING 



You love me still " lo t' amo." — Muriel 

— no — 
She cannot love ; she loves her own 

hard self, 
Her firm will, her fix'd purpose. Pro- 
mise me, 
Miriam not Muriel — she shall have the 

ring.' 
And there the light of other life, which 

lives 
Beyond our burial and our buried eyes, 
Gleam'd for a moment in her own on 

earth. 
I swore the vow, then with my latest 

kiss 
Upon them, closed her eyes, which would 

not close, 
But kept their watch upon the ring and 

you. 
Your birthday was her death-day. 

Miriam. O poor Mother ! 

And you, poor desolate Father, and 

poor me, 
The little senseless, worthless, wordless 

babe. 
Saved when your life was wreck'd ! 

Fathe7\ Desolate ? yes ! 

Desolate as that sailor, whom the storm 
Had parted from his comrade in the 

boat. 
And dash'd half dead on barren sands, 

was I. 
Nay, you were my one solace ; only — 

you 
Were always ailing. Muriel's mother 

sent. 
And sure am I, by Muriel, one day came 
And saw you, shook her head, and patted 

yours. 
And smiled, and making with a kindly 

pinch 
Each poor pale cheek a momentary rose — 
' That should be fix'd,' she said ; 'your 

pretty bud, 
So bhghted here, would flower into full 

health 
Among our heath and bracken. Let her 

come ! 
And we will feed her with our mountain 

air, 



And send her home to you rejoicing.' 

No— - 
We could not part. And once, when 

you my girl 
Rode on my shoulder home — the tiny fist 
Had graspt a daisy from your Mother's 

grave — 
By the lych-gate was Muriel. 'Ay,' she 

said, 
' Among the tombs in this damp vale of 

yours ! 
You scorn my Mother's warning, but the 

child 
Is paler than before. We often walk 
In open sun, and see beneath our feet 
The mist of autumn gather from your 

lake, 
Aud shroud the tower ; and once we 

only saw 
Your gilded vane, a light above the 

mist ' — 
(Our old bright bird that still is veering 

there 
Above his four gold letters) ' and the 

light,' 
She said, ' was like that light ' — and there 

she paused. 
And long ; till I believing that the girl's 
Lean fancy, groping for it, could not find 
One likeness, laugh'd a little and found 

her two — 
' A warrior's crest above the cloud of 

war ' — 
' A fiery phcenix rising from the smoke, 
The pyre he burnt in.' — ' Nay,' she said, 

' the light 
That glimmers on the marsh and on the 

grave. ' 
x\nd spoke no more, but turn'd and 

pass'd away. 
Miriam, I am not surely one of those 
Caught by the flower that closes on the 

fly, 

But after ten slow weeks her fix'd intent, 
In aiming at an all but hopeless mark 
To strike it, struck ; I took, I left yoij 

there ; 

I came, I went, was happier day by day ; 
For Muriel nursed you with a mother's 

care ; 



THE RING 



857 



Till on that clear and heather-scented 

height 
The rounder cheek had brighten'd into 

bloom. 
She always came to meet me carrying 

you, 
And all her talk was of the babe she 

loved ; 
So, following her old pastime of the brook, 
She threw the fly for me ; but oftener left 
That angling to the mother. ' Muriel's 

health 
Had weaken'd, nursing little Miriam. 

Strange I 
She used to shun the wailing babe, and 

doats 
On this of yours. ' But when the matron 

saw 
That hinted love was only wasted bait, 
Not risen to, she was bolder. ' Ever 

since 
You sent the fatal ring ' — I told her ' sent 
To Miriam,' ' Doubtless — ay, but ever 

since 
In all the world my dear one sees but 

you — 
In your sweet babe she finds but you — 

she makes 
Her heart a mirror that reflects but you.' 
And then the tear fell, the voice broke. 

He7- heart ! 
I gazed into the mirror, as a man 
Who sees his face in water, and a stone, 
That glances from the bottom of the 

pool, 
Strike upward thro' the shadow ; yet at 

last, 
Gratitude — loneliness — desire to keep 
So skilled a nurse about you always — 

nay ! 
Some half remorseful kind of pity too — 
Well ! well, you know I married Muriel 

Erne. 
' I take thee Muriel for my wedded 

wife '— 
I had forgotten it was your birthday, 

child— 
When all at once with some electric thrill 
A cold air pass'd between us, and the 

hands 



Fell from each other, and were join'd 
again. 
No second cloudless honeymoon was 
mine. 
For by and by she sicken'd of the farce, 
She dropt the gracious mask of mother- 
hood. 
She came no more to meet me, carrying 

you. 
Nor ever cared to set you on her knee. 
Nor ever let you gambol in her sight. 
Nor ever cheer'd you with a kindly smile, 
Nor ever ceased to clamour for the ring ; 
Why had I sent the ring at first to her ? 
Why had I made her love me thro' the 

ring, 
And then had changed ? so fickle are 

men — the best ! 
Not she — but now my love was hers 

again. 
The ring by right, she said, was hers 

again. 
At times too shrilling in her angrier 

moods, 
' That weak and watery nature love you ? 

No! 
*' -/^ t' amo, lo t' amo " ! ' flung herself 
Against my heart, but often while hei 

lips 
Were warm upon my cheek, an icy breath. 
As from the grating of a sepulchre, 
Past over both. I told her of my vow, 
No pliable idiot I to break my vow ; 
But still she made her outcry for the ring ; 
For one monotonous fancy madden'd 

her, 
Till I myself was madden'd with her cry, 
And even that ' lo t' amo,' those three 

sweet 
Italian words, became a weariness. 

My people too were scared with eerie 

sounds, 
A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls, 
A noise of falling weights that never fell, 
Weird whispers, bells that rang without 

a hand. 
Door-handles turn'd when none was at 

the door, 
And bolted doors that open'd of them- 
selves : 



8s8 



THE RING 



And one betwixt the dark and light had 

seen 
Her, bending by the cradle of her babe. 
I\Iiriai7i. And I remember once that 

being waked 
By noises in the house — and no one near — 
I cried for nurse, and felt a gentle hand 
Fall on my forehead, and a sudden face 
Look'd in upon me like a gleam and 

pass'd, 
And I was quieted, and slept again. 
Or is it some half memory of a dream ? 
Father, Your fifth September birth- 
day. 
Miriam. And the face, 

The hand, — my Mother. 

Father. Miriam, on that day 

Two lovers parted by no scurrilous tale — 
Mere want of gold — and still for twenty 

years 
Bound by the golden cord of their first 

love — • 
Had ask'd us to their marriage, and to 

share 
Their marriage-banquet. Muriel, paler 

then 
Than ever you were in your cradle, 

moan'd, 
' I am fitter for my bed, or for my grave, 
I cannot go, go you.' And then she rose. 
She clung to me with such a hard embrace. 
So lingeringly long, that half-amazed 
I parted from her, and I went alone. 
And when the bridegroom murmur'd, 

' With this ring,' 
I felt for what I could not find, the key, 
The guardian of her relics, of her ring. 
I kept it as a sacred amulet 
About me, — gone ! and gone in that 

embrace ! 
Then, hurrying home, I found her not 

in house 
Or garden — up the tower — an icy air 
Fled by me. — There, the chest was open 

—all 
The sacred relics tost about the floor — 
Among them Muriel lying on her face — 
I raised her, call'd her ' Muriel, Muriel 

wake ! ' 
The fatal ring lay near her ; the glazed eye 



Glared at me as in horror. Dead ! I 

took 
And chafed the freezing hand. A red 

mark ran 
All round one finger pointed straight, 

the rest 
Were crumpled inwards. Dead ! — and 

maybe stung 
With some remorse, had stolen, worn the 

ring- 
Then torn it from her finger, or as if — 
For never had I seen her show remorse — 
As if— 

Miriam. — those two Ghost lovers — 
Father. Lovers yet — 

Miriam. Yes, yes ! 
Father. — but dead so long, gone up 

so far, 
That now their ever-rising life has dwarf d 
Or lost the moment of their past on earth, 
As we forget our wail at being born. 
Asif— 

Miriam. — a dearer ghost had — 
Father. — wrench'd it away. 

Miriam. Had floated in with sad 

reproachful eyes, 
Till from her own hand she had torn the 

ring 
In fright, and fallen dead. And I myself 
Am half afraid to wear it. 

Father. Well, no more ! 

No bridal music this ! but fear not you ! 
You have the ring she guarded ; that 

poor link 
With earth is broken, and has left her 

free, 
Except that, still drawn downward for 

an hour. 
Her spirit hovering by the church, where 

she 
Was married too, may linger, till she 

sees 
Her maiden coming like a Queen, who 

leaves 
Some colder province in the North to 

gain 
Her capital city, where the loyal bells 
Clash welcome — linger, till her own, the 

babe 
She lean'd to from her Spiritual sphere, 



FORLORN 



859 



Her lonely maiden - Princess, crown'd 

with flowers, 
Has enter'd on the larger woman-world 
Of wives and mothers. 

But the bridal veil — 
Your nurse is waiting. Kiss me child 
and go. 

FORLORN 



* He is fled — I wish him dead- 
He that wrought my ruin — 
O the flattery and the craft 
Which were my undoing . . . 
In the night, in the night. 
When the storms are blowing. 



* Who was witness of the crime ? 
Who shall now reveal it? 
He is fled, or he is dead, 

Marriage will conceal it . . . 
In the night, in the night, 
While the gloom is growing.' 



Catherine, Catherine, in the night, 
What is this you're dreaming ? 

There is laughter down in Hell 
At your simple scheming . . . 
In the night, in the night, 
When the ghosts are fleeting. 



You to place a hand in his 

Like an honest woman's. 
You that lie with wasted lungs 

Waiting for your summons . 

In the night, O the night ! 

O the deathwatch beating ! 



There will come a witness soon 

Hard to be confuted. 
All the world will hear a voice 

Scream you are polluted . . . 

In the night ! O the night. 

When the owls are wailing ! 



Shame and marriage. Shame and 
marriage. 

Fright and foul dissembling, 
Bantering bridesman, reddening priest. 

Tower and altar trembling . . . 

In the night, O the night, 

When the mind is failing ! 



Mother, dare you kill your child ? 

How your hand is shaking ! 
Daughter of the seed of Cain, 

What is this you're taking ? . . 

In the night, O the night. 

While the house is sleeping. 

VIII 

Dreadful ! has it come to this, 

O unhappy creature ? 
You that would not tread on a worm 

For your gentle nature . . . 

In the night, O the night, 

O the night of weeping ! 



Murder would not veil your sin. 

Marriage will not hide it. 
Earth and Hell will brand your name, 

Wretch you must abide it . . . 

In the night, O the night. 

Long before the dawning. 



Up, get up, and tell him all. 
Tell him you were lying ! 

Do not die with a lie in your mouth, 
You that know you're dying . . . 
In the night, O the night, 
While the grave is yawning. 



No — you will not die before, 
Tho' you'll ne'er be stronger ; 

You will live till that is born, 
Then a little longer . . . 
In the night, O the night. 
While the P'iend is proAvling. 



86o 



HAPPY 



Death and 



Death and 



marriage, 
marriage ! 
Funeral hearses rolling ! 
Black with bridal favours mixt ! 
Bridal bells with tolling ! . . 
In the night, O the night, 
When the wolves are howling, 



Up, get up, the time is short, 
Tell him now or never ! 

Tell him all before you die, 
Lest you die for ever . . . 
In the night, O the night, 
Where there's no forgetting. 



Up she got, and wrote him all, 

All her tale of sadness, 
Blister'd every word with tears, 

And eased her heart of madness . 

In the night, and nigh the dawn, 

And while the mocm was setting 



HAPPY 

THE leper's bride 
I 

Why wail you, pretty plover? and what 
is it that you fear? 
Is he sick your mate like mine ? have 
you lost him, is he fled ? 
And there — the heron rises from his 
watch beside the mere. 
And flies above the leper's hut, where 
lives the living-dead. 



Come back, nor let me know it ! would 
he live and die alone ? 
And has he not forgiven me yet, his 
over-jealous bride. 
Who am, and was, and will be his, his 
own and only own. 
To share his living death with him, 
die with him side by side ? 



Ill 

Is that the leper's hut on the solitary 
moor, 
Wliere noble Ulric dwells forlorn, and 
wears the leper's weed ? 
The door is open. He ! is he standing 
at the door. 
My soldier of the Cross ? it is he and 
he indeed ! 



My roses — will he take them iiow — mine, 
his — from off the tree 
We planted both together, happy in 
our marriage morn ? 
O God, I could blaspheme, for he fought 
Thy fight for Thee, 
And Thou hast made him leper to 
compass him with scorn — 



Hast spared the flesh of thousands, the 
coward and the base, 
And set a crueller mark than Cain's 
on him, the good and brave ! 
He sees me, waves me from him. I will 
front him face to face. 
You need not wave me from you. I 
would leap into your grave. 



My warrior of the Holy Cross and of the 
conquering sword. 
The roses that you cast aside — once 
more I bring you these. 
No nearer ? do you scorn me when you 
tell me, O my lord. 
You would not mar the beauty of your 
bride with vour disease. 



You say your body is so foul — then here 
I stand apart. 
Who yearn to lay my loving head upon 
your leprous breast. 
The leper plague may scale my skin but 
never taint my heart ; 
Your body is not foul to me, and body 
is foul at best. 



HAPPY 



86i 



I loved you first when young and fair, 
but now I love you most ; 
The fairest flesh at last is filth on which 
the worm will feast ; 
This poor rib-grated dungeon of the holy 
human ghost, 
This house with all its hateful needs no 
cleaner than the beast, 



This coarse diseaseful creature which in 
Eden was divine, 
This Satan - haunted ruin, this little 
city of sewers. 
This wall of solid flesh that comes between 
your soul and mine. 
Will vanish and give place to the 
beauty that endures, 



The beauty that endures on the Spiritual 
height, 
When we shall stand transfigured, like 
Christ on Hermon hill. 
And moving each to music, soul in soul 
and light in light. 
Shall flash thro' one another in a 
moment as we will. 



Foul ! foul ! the word was yours not 
mine, I worship that right hand 
Which fell'd the foes before you as the 
woodman fells the wood. 
And sway'd the sword that lighten'd back 
the sun of Holy land. 
And clove the Moslem crescent moon, 
and changed it into blood. 



And once I worshipt all too well this 
creature of decay, 
For Age will chink the face, and Death 
will freeze the supplest limbs — 
Yet you in your mid manhood — O the 
grief when yesterday 
They bore the Cross before you to the 
chant of funeral hymns. 



XIII 

Domine ! ' you 



sang the 



' Libera me. 

Psalm, and when 
The Priest pronounced you dead, and 
flung the mould upon your feet, 
A beauty came upon your face, not that 
of living men. 
But seen upon the silent brow when 
life has ceased to beat. 

XIV 

'Libera nos, Domine' — you knew not 
one was there 
Who saw you kneel beside your bier, 
and weeping scarce could see ; 
May I come a little nearer, I that heard, 
and changed the prayer 
And sang the married ' nos ' for the 
solitary ' me.' 



My beauty marred by you ? by you ! so 
be it. All is well 
If I lose it and myself in the higher 
beauty, yours. 
My beauty lured that falcon from his 
eyry on the fell. 
Who never caught one gleam of the 
beauty which endures — 



The Count who sought to snap the bond 
that link'd us life to life. 
Who whisper'd me 'your Ulric loves' 
— a little nearer still — 
He hiss'd, ' Let us revenge ourselves, 
your Ulric woos my wife ' — 
A lie by which he thought he could 
subdue me to his will. 



I knew that you were near me when I 
let him kiss my brow ; 
Did he touch me on the lips ? I was 
jealous, anger'd, vain, 
And I meant to make you jealous. Are 
you jealous of me now ? 
Your pardon, O my love, if I ever gave 
you pain. 



862 



HAPPY 



XVIII 

You never once accused me, but I wept 
alone, and sigh'd 
In the winter of the Present for the 
summer of the Past ; 
That icy winter silence — how it froze you 
from your bride, 
Tho' I made one barren effort to break 
it at the last. 

XIX 

I brought you, you remember, these roses, 
when I knew 
You were parting for the war, and you 
took them tho' you frown'd ; 
You frown'd and yet you kiss'd them. 
All at once the trumpet blew, 
And you spurr'd your fiery horse, and 
you hurl'd them to the ground. 

XX 

You parted for the Holy War without a 
word to me, 
And clear myself unask'd — not I. My 
nature was too proud. 
And him I saw but once again, and far 
away was he. 
When I was praying in a storm — the 
crash was long and loud — 



That God would ever slant His bolt from 
falling on your head — 
Then I lifted up my eyes, he was coming 
down the fell — 
I clapt my hands. The sudden fire from 
Heaven had dash'd him dead. 
And sent him charr'd and blasted to 
the deathless fire of Hell. 

XXII 

See, I sinn'd but for a moment. I re- 
pented and repent, 
And trust myself forgiven by the God 
to whom I kneel. 
A little nearer ? Yes. I shall hardly be 
content 
Till I be leper like yourself, my love, 
from head to heel. 



XXIII 

O foolish dreams, that you, that I, would 
slight our marriage oath : 
I held you at that moment even dearer 
than before ; 
Now God has made you leper in His 
loving care for both. 
That we might cling together, never 
doubt each other more. 



The Priest, who join'd you to the dead, 
has join'd our hands of old ; 
If man and wife be but one flesh, let 
mine be leprous too, 
As dead from all the human race as if 
beneath the mould ; 
If you be dead, then I am dead, who 
only live for you. 



Would Earth tho' hid in cloud not be 
follow'd by the Moon ? 
The leech forsake the dying bed for 
terror of his life ? 
The shadow leave the Substance in the 
brooding light of noon ? 
Or if / had been the leper would you 
have left the wife ? 



Not take them ? Still you wave me off 
— poor roses — must I go — 
I have worn them year by year — from 
the bush we both had set — 
What ? fling them to you ? — well — that 
were hardly gracious. No ! 
Your plague but passes by the touch. 
A little nearer yet ! 



There, there ! he buried you, the Priest ; 
the Priest is not to blame. 
He joins us once again, to his eithei 
office true : 
I thank him. I am happy, happy. 
Kiss me. In the name 
Of the everlasting God, I will live and 
die with you. 



TO ULYSSES 



863 



[Dean Milman has remarked that the protec- 
tion and care afforded by the Church to this 
blighted race of lepers was among the most 
beautiful of its offices during the Middle Ages. 
The leprosy of the thirteenth and fourteenth 
centuries was supposed to be a legacy of the 
crusades, but was in all probability the offspring 
of meagre and unwholesome diet, miserable 
lodging and clothing, physical and moral degra- 
dation. The services of the Church in the seclu- 
sion of these unhappy sufferers were most affecting. 
The stern du.y of looking to the public welfare is 
tempered with exquisite compassion forthe victims 
of this loathsome disease. The ritual for the 
sequestration of the leprous differed little from the 
burial service. After the leper had been sprinkled 
with holy water, the priest conducted him into 
the church, the leper singing the psalm ' Libera 
me, Domine,' and the crucifix and bearer going 
before. In the church a black cloth was stretched 
over two trestles in front of the altar, and the 
leper leaning at its side devoutly heard mass. 
The priest, taking up a little earth in his cloak, 
threw it on one of the leper's feet, and put him out 
of the church, if it did not rain too heavily ; took 
him to his hut in the midst of the fields, and then 
uttered the prohibitions : ' I forbid you entering 
the church .... or entering the company of 
others. I forbid you quitting your home without 
your leper's dress.' He concluded : 'Take this 
dress, and wear it in token of humility ; take 
these gloves, take this clapper, as a sign that you 
are forbidden to speak to any one. You are not 
to be indignant at being thus separated from 
others, and as to your little wants, good people 
will provide for you, and God will not desert you.' 
Then in this old ritual follow these sad words : 
' When it shall come to pass that the leper shall 
pass out of this world, he shall be buried in his 
hut, and not in the churchyard.' At first there 
was a doubt whether wives should follow their 
husbands who had been leprous, or remain in the 
world and marry again. The Church decided 
that the marriage-tie was indissoluble, and so be- 
stowed on these unhappy beings this immense 
source of consolation. With a love stronger than 
this living death, lepers were followed into banish- 
ment from the haunts of men by their faithful 
wives. Readers of Sir J. Stephen's Essays on 
Ecclesiastical Biography will recollect the de- 
scription of the founder of the Franciscan order, 
how, controlling his involuntary disgust, St. Fran- 
cis of Assisi washed the feet and dressed the sores 
of the lepers, once at least reverently applying 
his lips to their wounds. — Boucher-James.] 

This ceremony of ^ Krti-/-burial varied consider- 
ably at different times and in different places. In 
some cases a grave was dug, and the leper's face 
was often covered during the service. 



TO ULYSSES 1 

I 

Ulysses, much-experienced man, 

Whose eyes have known this globe of 

ours, 
Her tribes of men, and trees, and 
flowers. 
From Corrientes to Japan, 



To you that bask below the Line, 
I soaking here in winter wet — 
The century's three strong eights have 
met 

To drag me down to seventy -nine 



In summer if I reach my day — 

To you, yet young, who breathe the 

balm 
Of summer-winters by the palm 

And orange grove of Paraguay, 



I tolerant of the colder time. 

Who love the winter woods, to trace 
On paler heavens the branching grace 

Of leafless elm, or naked lime, 



And see my cedar green, and there 

My giant ilex keeping leaf 

When frost is keen and da}s are brief — 
Or marvel how in English air 

VI 

My yucca, which no winter quells, 
Altho' the months have scarce begun, 
Has push'd toward our faintest sun 

A spike of half-accomplish'd bells — 

VII 

Or watch the waving pine which here 
The warrior of Caprera set,- 
^ ' Ulysses,' the title of a number of essays by 

W. G. Palgrave. He died at Monte Video before 

seeing my poem. 

2 Garibaldi said to me, alluding to his barren 

island, ' I wish I had j'our trees.' 



864 



TO MARY BOYLE 



A name that earth will not forget 
Till earth has roll'd her latest year — 

VIII 

I, once half-crazed for larger light 
On broader zones beyond the foam, 
But chaining fancy now at home 

Among the quarried downs of Wight, 



IX 

Not less would yield full thanks to you 
For your rich gift, your tale of lands 
I know not,i your Arabian sands ; 

Your cane, your palm, tree-fern, bamboo. 



The wealth of tropic bower and brake ; 
Your Oriental Eden-isles, ^ 
Where man, nor only Nature smiles 

Your wonder of the boiling lake ; ^ 



Phra-Chai, the Shadow of the Best,* 
Phra-bat ^ the step ; your Pontic coast ; 
Crag-cloister ; ^ Anatolian Ghost ; ^ 

Hong-Kong,* Karnac,^ and all the rest. 



Thro' which I follow'd line by line 

Your leading hand, and came, my 

friend. 
To prize your various book, and send 

A gift of slenderer value, mine. 

1 The tale of Nejd. 

2 The Philippines. 

3 In Dominica. 

■* The Shadow of the Lord. Certain obscure 
markings on a rock in Siam, which express the 
image of Buddha to the Buddhist more or less 
distinctly according to his faith and his moral 
worth. 

5 The footstep of the Lord on another rock. 

6 The monastery of Sumelas. 

7 Anatolian Spectre stories. 

8 The Three Cities. 

9 Travels in Egypt. 



TO MARY BOYLE 
With the following Poem 



' Spring -FLOWERS ' ! While you still 
delay to take 

Your leave of Town, 
Our elmtree's ruddy-hearted blossom- 
flake 

Is fluttering down. 



Be truer to your promise. There ! I 
heard 

Our cuckoo call. 
Be needle to the magnet of your word. 

Nor wait, till all 



Our vernal bloom from every vale and 
plain 

And garden pass. 
And all the gold from each laburnum 
chain 

Drop to the grass. 



Is memory with your Marian gone to rest. 
Dead with the dead ? 

For ere she left us, when we met, you 
prest 

My hand, and said 



' I come with your spring-flowers. ' You 
came not, friend ; 

My birds would sing, 
You heard not. Take then this spring- 
flower I send, 

This song of spring, 



Found yesterday — forgotten mine own 
rhyme 

By mine old self. 
As I shall be forgotten by old Time, 

Laid on the shelf — 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING 



865 



VII 


XIV 


A rhyme that flower'd betwixt the whiten- 


Let golden youth bewail the friend, the 


ing sloe 


wife. 


And kingcup blaze, 


For ever gone. 


And more than half a hundred years ago, 


He dreams of that long walk thro' desert 


In rick-fire days, 


hfe 




Without the one. 


VIII 




When Dives loathed the times, and paced 


XV 


his land 


The silver year should cease to mourn 


In fear of worse. 


and sigh — 


And sanguine Lazarus felt a vacant hand 


Not long to wait — 


Fill with his purse. 


So close are we, dear Mary, you and I 


IX 


To that dim gate. 


For lowly minds were madden'd to the 


XVI 


height 


Take, read ! and be the faults your Poet 


By tonguester tricks. 


makes 


And once — I well remember that red 


Or many or few. 


night 


He rests content, if his young music 


When thirty ricks, 


wakes 


X 


A wish in you 


All flaming, made an English homestead 


XVII 


Hell— 


To change our dark Queen -city, all her 


These hands of mine 


realm 


Have helpt to pass a bucket from the well 


Of sound and smoke. 


Along the line, 


For his clear heaven, and these few lanes 




of elm 


XI 


And whispering oak. 


When this bare dome had not begun to 




gleam 

Thro' youthful curls, 


THE PROGRESS OF SPRING 


And you were then a lover's fairy dream. 




His girl of girls ; 


I 




The groundflame of the crocus breaks 


XII 


the mould, 


And you, that now are lonely, and with 


Fair Spring slides hither o'er the 


Grief 


Southern sea. 


Sit face to face, 


Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop 


Might find a flickering glimmer of relief 


cold 


In change of place. 


That trembles not to kisses of the bee : 




Come, Spring, for now from all the 


XIII 


dripping eaves 


What use to brood ? this life of mingled 


The spear of ice has wept itself away, 


pains 


And hour by hour unfolding woodbine 


And joys to me. 


leaves 


Despite of every Faith and Creed, remains 


O'er his uncertain shadow droops the 


The Mystery. 


day. 



3 K 



866 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING 



She comes ! The loosen'd rivulets run ; 

The frost-bead melts upon her golden 

hair ; 

Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun, 

Now wraps her close, now arching 

leaves her bare 
To breaths of balmier air ; 



Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome 
her. 
About her glance the tits, and shriek 
the jays, 
Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker, 
The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze. 
While round her brows a woodland culver 
flits, 
Watching her large light eyes and 
gracious looks, 
And in her open palm a halcyon sits 
Patient — the secret splendour of the 
brooks. 
Come, Spring ! She comes on waste and 
wood. 
On farm and field : but enter also here. 
Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my blood, 
And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere, 
Lodge with me all the year ! 

Ill 

Once more a downy drift against the 
brakes, 
Self-darken'd in the sky, descending 
slow ! 
But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes 
Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow. 
These will thine eyes not brook in forest- 
paths, 
On their perpetual pine, nor round 
the beech ; 
They fuse themselves to little spicy baths, 
Solved in the tender blushes of the 
peach ; 
They lose themselves and die 

On that new life that gems the haw- 
thorn line ; 
Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by. 
And out once more in varnish'd glory 

shine 
Thy stars of celandine. 



IV 

She floats across the hamlet. Heaven 
lours. 
But in the tearful splendour of her 
smiles 
I see the slowly -thickening chestnut 
towers 
Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles. 
Now past her feet the swallow circling 
flies, 
A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet 
her hand ; 
Her light makes rainbows in my closing 
eyes, 
I hear a charm of song thro' all the 
land. 
Come, Spring ! She comes, and Earth 
is glad 
To roll her North below thy deepening 
dome, 
But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad, 
And these low bushes dip their twigs 

in foam. 
Make all true hearths thy home. 



Across my garden ! and the thicket stirs, 
The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, 
The blackcap warbles, and the turtle 
purrs. 
The starling claps his tiny castanets. 
Still round her forehead wheels the 
woodland dove, 
And scatters on her throat the sparks 
of dew. 
The kingcup fills her footprint, and above 
Broaden the glowing isles of vernal 
blue. 
Hail ample presence of a Queen, 

Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, 
Whose mantle, every shade of glancing 
green, 
Flies back in fragrant breezes to display 
A tunic white as May ! 



She whispers, ' From the South I bring 
you balm, 
For on a tropic mountain was I born, 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 



867 



While some dark dweller by the coco- 


Be struck from out the clash of warring 


palm 


wills ; 


Watch'd my far meadow zoned with 


Or whether, since our nature cannot rest. 


airy morn ; 


The smoke of war's volcano burst 


From mider rose a muffled moan of 


again 


floods ; 


From hoary deeps that belt the changeful 


I sat beneath a solitude of snow ; 


West, 


There no one came, the turf was fresh, 


Old Empires, dwellings of the kings 


the woods 


of men ; 


Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their 


Or should those fail, that hold the helm, 


vales below. 


While the long day of knowledge 


I saw beyond their silent tops 


grows and warms, 


The steaming marshes of the scarlet 


And in the heart of this most ancient 


cranes, 


realm 


The slant seas leaning on the mangrove 


A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms 


copse, 


Sounding ' To arms ! to arms ! ' 


And summer basking in the sultry 




plains 


IX 


About a land of canes ; 


A simpler, saner lesson might he learn 


VII 


Who reads thy gradual process, Holy 




Spring. 


' Then from my vapour-girdle soaring 


Thy leaves possess the season in their 


forth 


turn. 


I scaled the buoyant highway of the 


And in their time thy warblers rise on 


birds, 


wing. 


And drank the dews and drizzle of the 


How surely glidest thou from March to 


North, 


May, 


That I might mix with men, and hear 


And changest, breathing it, the sullen 


their words 


wind, 


On path way 'd plains ; for — while my 


Thy scope of operation, day by day, 


hand exults 


Larger and fuller, like the human 


Within the bloodless heart of lowly 


mind ! 


flowers 


Thy warmths from bud to bud 


To work old laws of Love to fresh 


Accomplish that blind model in the 


results, 


seed. 


Thro' manifold effect of simple powers — 


And men have hopes, which race the 


I too would teach the man 


restless blood, 


Beyond the darker hour to see the 


That after many changes may succeed 


bright. 


Life, which is Life indeed. 


That his fresh life may close as it began. 




The still-fulfilling promise of a light 




Narrowing the bounds of night.' 


MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 


VIII 

So wed thee with my soul, that I may 


I 
YOUNG Mariner, 


mark 


You from the haven 


The coming year's great good and 


Under the sea-cliff. 


varied ills. 


You that are watching 


And new developments, whatever spark 


The gray Magician 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 



With eyes of wonder, 

/am Merlin, 

And /am dying, 

/am Merlin 

Who follow The Gleam. 



Mighty the Wizard 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleeping, and woke me 
And learn'd me Magic ! 
Great the Master, 
And sweet the Magic, 
When over the valley. 
In early summers, 
Over the mountain, 
On human faces, 
And all around me, 
Moving to melody. 
Floated The Gleam. 



Once at the croak of a Raven 

who crost it, 
A barbarous people, 
Blind to the magic, 
And deaf to the melody, 
Snarl'd at and cursed me. 
A demon vext me, 
The light retreated. 
The landskip darken'd, 
The melody deaden'd. 
The Master whisper'd 
' Follow the Gleam.' 

IV 

Then to the melody, 

Over a wilderness 

Gliding, and glancing at 

Elf of the woodland, 

Gnome of the cavern, 

Griffin and Giant, 

And dancing of Fairies 

In desolate hollows, 

And wraiths of the mountain. 

And rolling of dragons 

By warble of water, 

Or cataract music 

Of falling torrents. 

Flitted The Gleam. 



Down from the mountain 

And over the level. 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river. 

Silvery willow, 

Pasture and plowland. 

Innocent maidens. 

Garrulous children. 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner. 

And rough -ruddy faces 

Of lowly labour, 

Slided The Gleam- 



Then, with a melody 
Stronger and statelier, 
Led me at length 
To the city and palace 
Of Arthur the king ; 
Touch'd at the golden 
Cross of the churches, 
Flash'd on the Tournament, 
Flicker'd and bicker'd 
From helmet to helmet, 
And last on the forehead 
Of Arthur the blameless 
Rested The Gleam. 



Clouds and darkness 

Closed upon Camelot ; 

Arthur had vanish'd 

I knew not whither, 

The king who loved me. 

And cannot die ; 

For out of the darkness 

Silent and slowly 

The Gleam, that had waned to a 

wintry glimmer 
On icy fallow 
And faded forest, 
Drew to the valley 
Named of the shadow. 
And slowly brightening 
Out of the glimmer. 
And slowly movingagain to a melody 
Yearningly tender, 



ROMNE TS REMORSE 



869 



Fell on the shadow, 

No longer a shadow, 

But clothed with The Gleam. 



And broader and brighter 

The Gleam flying onward, 

Wed to the melody. 

Sang thro' the world ; 

And slower and fainter, 

Old and weary. 

But eager to follow, 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city. 

That under the Crosses 

The dead man's garden, 

The mortal hillock, 

Would break into blossom ; 

And so to the land's 

Last limit I came 

And can no longer. 

But die rejoicing, 

For thro' the Magic 

Of Him the Mighty, 

Who taught me in childhood, 

There on the border 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers The Gleam. 



Not of the sunlight, 
Not of the moonlight. 
Not of the starlight ! 
O young Mariner, 
Down to the haven. 
Call your companions. 
Launch your vessel, 
And crowd your canvas. 
And, ere it vanishes 
Over the margin. 
After it, follow it. 
Follow The Gleam. 

ROMNEY'S REMORSE 

' I read Hayley's Life of Romney the other 
day — Romney wanted but education and reading 
to make him a very fine painter ; but his ideal 



was not high nor fixed. How touching is the 
close of his life ! He married at nineteen, and 
because Sir Joshua and others had said that 
" marriage spoilt an artist" almost immediately 
left his wife in the North and scarce saw her till 
the end of his life ; when old, nearly mad and 
quite desolate, he went back to her and she 
received him and nursed him till he died. This 
quiet act of hers is worth all Romney 's pictures ! 
even as a matter of Art, I am sure.' {Letters 
and Literary Remains 0/ Edward FitzGerald, 
vol. i.) 

' Beat, little heart — I give you this and 

this' 
Who are you ? What ! the Lady 

Hamilton ? 
Good, I am never weary painting you. 
To sit once more? Cassandra, Hebe, 

Joan, 
Or spinning at your wheel beside the 

vine — 
Bacchante, what you will ; and if I 

fail 
To conjure and concentrate into form 
And colour all you are, the fault is less 
In me than Art, What Artist ever yet 
Could make pure light live on the canvas? 

LArt ! 
Why should I so disrelish that short word ? 
Where am I ? snow on all the hills ! 

so hot. 
So fever'd ! never colt would more delight 
To roll himself in meadow grass than I 
To wallow in that winter of the hillsTl 
Nurse, \tere you hired ? or came of 

your own will 
To wait on one so broken, so forlorn ? 
Have I not met you somewhere long ago ? 
I am all but sure I have — in Kendal 

church — 

yes ! I hired you for a season there. 
And then we parted ; but you look so 

kind 
That you will not deny my sultry throat 
One draught of icy water. There — you 

spill 
The drops upon my forehead. Your 

hand shakes. 

1 am ashamed. I am a trouble to you. 
Could kneel for your forgiveness. Are 

they tears ? 



870 



ROMNEY'S REMORSE 



For me — tliey do me too much grace — 

for me ? 
O Mary, Mary ! 

Vexing you with words ! 
Words only, born of fever, or the fumes 
Of that dark opiate dose you gave me, 

— words, 
Wild babble. I have stumbled back 

again 
Into the common day, the sounder self. 
God stay me there, if only for your sake, 
The truest, kindliest, noblest-hearted wife 
That ever wore a Christian marriage - 

ring. 
My curse upon the Master's apothegm. 
That wife and children drag an Artist 

down ! 
This seem'd. my lodestar in the Heaven 

of Art, 
And lured me from the household fire on 

earth. 
To you my days have been a life -long lie, 
Grafted on half a truth ; and tho' you say 
' Take comfort you have won the Painter's 

fame,' 
The best in me that sees the worst in me. 
And groans to see it, finds no comfort 

there. 
What fame ? I am not Raphael, 

Titian — no 
Nor even a Sir Joshua, some will cry. 
Wrong there ! The painter's fame ? but 

mine, that grew 
Blown into glittering by the popular 

breath. 
May float awhile beneath the sun, may 

roll 
The rainbow hues of heaven about it — 

There ! 
The colour'd bubble bursts above the 

abyss — > 

Of Darkness, utter Lethe. / 

Is it so ? 

Her sad eyes plead for my own fame 

with me 
To make it dearer. 

Look, the sun has risen 
To flame along another dreary day. 



Your hand. How bright you keep your 

marriage-ring ! 
Raise me. I thank you. 

Has your opiate then 
Bred this black mood ? or am I conscious, 

more 
Than other Masters, of the chasm 

between 
Work and Ideal ? Or does the gloom 

of Age 
And suffering cloud the height I stand 

upon 
Even from myself? stand? stood . . . 

no more. 

And yet 
The world would lose, if such a wife as 

you 
Should vanish unrecorded. Might I 

crave 
One favour ? I am bankrupt of all claim 
On your obedience, and my strongest 

wish 
Falls flat before your least unwillingness. 
Still would you — if it please you — sit 

to me ? 
I dream'd last night of that clear 

summer noon, 
When seated on a rock, and foot to foot 
With your own shadow in the placid lake, 
You claspt our infant daughter, heart to 

heart. 
I had been among the hills, and brought 

you down 
A length of staghorn-moss, and this you 

twined 
About her cap. I see the picture yet, 
Mother and child. A sound from far 

away. 
No louder than a bee among the flowers, 
A fall of water luU'd the noon asleep. 
You still'd it for the moment with a song 
Which often echo'd in me, while I stood 
Before the great Madonna-masterpieces 
Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome. 

Mary, my crayons ! if T can, I will. 
You should have been — I might have 

made you once, 
Had I but knoNvn you as I know you 

now — 



JiOMNEY'S REMORSE 



87t 



The true Alcestis of the time. Your 

song- 
Sit, listen ! I remember it, a proof 
That I — even I — at times remember'd 

you. 

' Beat upon mine, little heart ! beat, 

beat ! 
Beat upon mine ! you are mine, my 

sweet ! 
All mine from your pretty blue eyes 

to your feet. 

My sweet.' 

Less profile ! turn to me — three-quarter 
face. 

' Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my 

bliss ! 
For I give you this, and I give you 

this ! 
And I blind your pretty blue eyes with 

a kiss ! 

Sleep ! ' 

Too early blinded by the kiss of death — 

* Father and Mother will watch you 

grow ' — 

You watch'd not I, she did not grow, 
she died. 

* Father and Mother will watch you 

grow. 
And gather the roses whenever they 

blow, 
And find the white heather wherever 

you go, 

iNIy sweet.' 

Ah, my white heather only blooms in 
heaven 

With Milton's amaranth. There, there, 
there ! a child 

Had shamed me at it — Down, you idle 
tools, 

Stampt into dust — tremulous, all awry, 

Blurr'd like a landskip in a ruffled pool, — 

Not one stroke firm. JThis Art, that 
harlot-like ^■ 

Seduced me from you, leaves me harlot- 
like. 

Who love her still, and whimper, im- 
potent 



To win her back before I die — and 

then — 
Then, in the loud world's bastard judg- 
ment-day, 
One truth will damn me with the mind- 
less mob, 
Who feel no touch of my temptation, 

more 
Than all the myriad lies, that blacken 

round 
The corpse of every man that gains a 

name ; 
' This model husband, this fine Artist ' ! 

Fool, 
What matters ? Six foot deep of burial 

mould 
Will dull their comments ! Ay, but when 

the shout 
Of His descending peals from Heaven, 

and throbs ^ - 

Thro' earth, and all her graves, lif He 

should ask 
' Wliy left you wife and children ? for 

my sake, 
According to my word ? ' and I replied 
' Nay, Lord, for Art,'' why that would 

sound so mean 
That all the dead, who wait the doom of 

Hell 
For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, 
Wife-murders, — nay, the ruthless Mussul- 
man 
Who flings his bowstrung Harem in the 

sea. 
Would turn, and glare at me, and point 

and jeer, 
And gibber at the worm, who, living, 

made 
The wife of wives a widow-bride, and 

lost -7 

Salvation for a sketch. I 

-"^ am wild again ! 
The coals of fire you heap upon my head 
Have crazed me. Someone knocking 

there without ? 
No ! Will my Indian brother come ? to 

find 
Me or my coffin ? Should I know the 

man ? 
This worn-out Reason dying in her house 



872 



PARNASSUS BY AN EVOLUTIONIST 



May leave the windows blinded, and if 

so, 
Bid him farewell for me, and tell him — 

Hope ! 
I hear a death-bed Angel whisper ' Hope. ' 
' ' The miserable have no medicine 
But only Hope ! " He said it ... in 

the play. 
His crime was of the senses ; of the mind 
Mine ; worse, cold, calculated. 

Tell my son — 

let me lean my head upon your breast. 
' Beat little heart ' on this fool brain of 

mine. 

1 once had friends — and many — none 

like you. 
I love you more than when we married. 

Hope ! 
O yes, I hope, or fancy that, perhaps. 
Human forgiveness touches heaven, and 

thence — 
For you forgive me, you are sure of that — 
Reflected, sends a light on the forgiven. 



PARNASSUS 

Exegi monumentum . . . 
Quod non . . . 
Possit diruere . . . 

. . . innumerabilis 
Annorum series et fuga temporum. — Horace. 

I 

What be those crown'd forms high over 

the sacred fountain ? 
Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised 

to the heights of the mountain. 
And over the flight of the Ages ! O 

Goddesses, help me up thither ! 
Lightning may shrivel the laurel of 

Ceesar, but mine would not wither. 
Steep is the mountain, but you, you will 

help me to overcome it. 
And stand with my head in the zenith, 

and roll my voice from the summit, 
Sounding for ever and ever thro' Earth 

and her listening nations, 
And mixt with the great Sphere-music of 

stars and of constellations. 



What be those two shapes high over the 

sacred fountain. 
Taller than all the Muses, and huger 

than all the mountain ? 
On those two known peaks they stand 

ever spreading and heightening ; 
Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted by 

more than lightning ! 
Look, in their deep double shadow the 

crown'd ones all disappearing ! 
Sing like a bird and be happy, nor hope 

for a deathless hearing ! 
' Sounding for ever and ever ? ' pass on ! 

the sight confuses — 
These are Astronomy and Geology, ter- 
rible Muses ! 



If the lips were touch'd with fire from off" 

a pure Pierian altar, 
Tho' their music here be mortal need the 

singer greatly care ? 
Other songs for other worlds ! the fire 

within him would not falter ; 
Let the golden Iliad vanish. Homer here 

is Homer there. 



BY AN EVOLUTIONIST 

The Lord let the house of a brute to the 
soul of a man. 
And the man said 'Am I your debtor?' 
And the Lord — ' Not yet : but make it 
as clean as you can, 
And then I will let you a better.' 



If my body come from brutes, my soul 
uncertain, or a fable. 
Why not bask amid the senses while 
the sun of morning shines, 
I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, j 
and in my stable. 
Youth and Health, and birth and 
wealth, and choice of women and 
of wines ? 



FAR-FAR-AWAY— BEAUTIFUL CITY 



873 



What hast thou done for me, grim Old 
Age, save breaking my bones on 
the rack ? 
Would I had past in the morning that 
looks so bright from afar ! 

Old Age 

Done for thee? starved the wild beast 
that was linkt with thee eighty 
years back. 
Less weight now for the ladder -of - 
heaven that hangs on a star. 



If my body come from brutes, tho' 
somewhat finer than their own, 
I am heir, and this my kingdom. 
Shall the royal voice be mute ? 
No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag 
me from the throne, 
Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and 
rule thy Province of the brute. 



I have climb'd to the snows of Age, and 
I gaze at a field in the Past, 
Where I sank with the body at times 
in the sloughs of a low desire, 
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the 
Man is quiet at last 
As he stands on the heights of his life 
with a glimpse of a height that is 
higher. 



FAR— FAR— AWAY 

(FOR MUSIC) 

What sight so lured him thro' the fields 

he knew 
As where earth's green stole into heaven's 

own hue. 

Far — far — away ? 

What sound was dearest in his native dells? 
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells 
Far — far — away. 



What vague world-whisper, mystic pain 

or joy, 
Thro' those three words would haunt him 

when a boy, 

Far — far — away ? 

A whisper from his dav/n of life ? a 

breath 
From some fair dawn beyond the doors 

of death 

Far — far— away ? 

Far, far, how far ? from o'er the gates of 

Birth, 
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth, 
Far — far — away ? 

What charm in words, a charm no words 

could give ? 
O dying words, can Music make you live 
Far — far — away ? 



POLITICS 

We move, the wheel must always move, 

Nor always on the plain. 
And if we move to such a goal 

As Wisdom hopes to gain, 
Then you that drive, and know your Craft, 

Will firmly hold the rein. 
Nor lend an ear to random cries. 

Or you may drive in vain. 
For some cry ' Quick ' and some cry 
'Slow,' 

But, while the hills remain, 
Up hill ' Too-slow ' will need the whip, 

Down hill ' Too-quick,' the chain. 



BEAUTIFUL CITY 

Beautiful city, the centre and crater 

of European confusion, 
O you with your passionate shriek for 

the rights of an equal humanity, 
How often your Re-volution has proven 

but E-volution 
Roll'd again back on itself in the tides of 

a civic insanity ! 



874 



THE ROSES ON THE TERRACE— THE OAK 



THE ROSES ON THE 
TERRACE 

Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago, 
When I was in my June, you in your 
May, 
Two words, ' My Rose ' set all your face 
aglow. 
And now that I am white, and you are 
gray, 
That blush of fifty years ago, my dear. 
Blooms in the Past, but close to me 
to-day 
As this red rose, which on our terrace here 
Glows in the blue of fifty miles away. 

THE PLAY 

Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom'd 
with woe 
You all but sicken at the shifting scenes. 
And yet be patient. Our Playwright 
may show 
In some fifth Act what this wild Drama 
means. 

ON ONE WHO AFFECTED 

AN EFFEMINATE MANNER 

While man and woman still are incom- 
plete, 

I prize that soul where man and woman 
meet, 

Which types all Nature's male and female 
plan, 

But, friend, man-woman is not woman- 
man. 

TO ONE WHO RAN DOWN 
THE ENGLISH 

You make our faults too gross, and thence 

maintain 
Our darker future. May your fears be 

vain ! 
At times the small black fly upon the pane 
May seem the black ox of the distant plain. 



THE SNOWDROP 

Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid, 
Ever as of old time, 
Solitary firstling. 
Coming in the cold time, 
Prophet of the gay time. 
Prophet of the May time, 
Prophet of the roses. 
Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid ! 



THE THROSTLE 

' Summer is coming, summer is coming. 

I know it, I know it, I know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, love 
again,' 

Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue. 

Last year you sang it as gladly. 
' New, new, new, new ' ! Is it then so 
new 

That you should carol so madly ? 

' Love again, song again, nest again, young 
again,' 

Never a prophet so crazy ! 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend. 

See, there is hardly a daisy. 

' Here again, here, here, here, happy 
year ' ! 

O warble unchidden, unbidden ! 
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear. 

And all the winters are hidden. 



THE OAK 

Live thy Life, 

Young and old. 
Like yon oak, 
Bright in spring, 
Living gold ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



875 



Summer-rich 

Then ; and then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-hued 

Gold again. 



All his leaves 

Fall'n at length, 
Look, he stands, 
Trunk and bough, 

Naked strength. 



IN MEMORIAM 
W. G. Ward 
Farewell, ' whose living like I shall 
not find, 
Whose Faith and Work were bells of 
full accord, 
My friend, the most unworldly of man- 
kind. 
Most generous of all UUramontanes, 
Ward, 
How subtle at tierce and quart of mmd 
with mind. 
How loyal in the following of thy 
Lord ! 



THE DEATH OF GENONE 

AND OTHER POEMS 



JUNE BRACKEN AND 
HEATHER 

To E. T. 

There on the top of the down, 

The wild heather round me and over me 

June's high blue, 
When I look'd at the bracken so bright 

and the heather so brown, 
I thought to myself I would offer this 

book to you, 
This, and my love together, 
To you that are seventy-seven. 
With a faith as clear as the heights of 

the June-blue heaven. 
And a fancy as summer-new 
As the green of the bracken amid the 

gloom of the heather. 



TO THE MASTER OF 
BALLIOL 

I 

Dear Master in our classic town, 
You, loved by all the younger gown 

There at Balliol, 
Lay your Plato for one minute down. 



And read a Grecian tale re-told. 
Which, cast in later Grecian mould, 

Quintus Calaber 
Somewhat lazily handled of old ; 



And on this white midwinter day— 
For have the far-off hymns of May, 

All her melodies, 
All her harmonies echo'd away ? — 



IV 

To-day, before you turn again 

To thoughts that lift the soul of men, 

Hear my cataract's 
Downward thunder in hollow and glen, 



Till, led by dream and vague desire. 
The woman, gliding toward the pyre, 

Find her warrior 
Stark and dark in his funeral fire. 



THE DEATH OF (ENONE 

QiNONE sat within the cave from out 
Whose ivy-matted mouth she used to gaze 
Down at the Troad ; but the goodly view 
Was now one blank, and all the serpent 

vines 
Which on the touch of heavenly feet had 

risen. 
And gliding thro' the branches over- 

bower'd 
The naked Three, were wither'd long 

ago. 
And thro' the sunless winter morning- 
mist 
In silence wept upon the flowerless earth. 
And while she stared at those dead 

cords that ran 
Dark thro' the mist, and linking tree to 

tree, 
But once were gayer than a dawning sky 
With many a pendent bell and fragrant 

star. 
Her Past became her Present, and she 

saw 
Him, climbing toward her with the 

golden fruit. 
Him, happy to be chosen Judge of Gods, 
Her husband in the flush of youth and 

dawn, 
Paris, himself as beauteous as a God. 



876 



THE DEATH OF (ENONE 



877 



Anon from out the long ravine below, 
She heard a wailing cry, that seem'd at 

first 
Thin as the batlike shrillings of the Dead 
When driven to Hades, but, in coming 

near, 
Across the downward thunder of the 

brook 
Sounded ' GEnone ' ; and on a sudden he, 
Paris, no longer beauteous as a God, 
Struck by a poison'd arrow in the fight, 
Lame, crooked, reeling, livid, thro' the 

mist 
Rose, like the wraith of his dead self, 

and moan'd 
' CEnone, wy CEnone, while we dwelt 
Together in this valley — happy then — 
Too happy had I died within thine 

arms, 
Before the feud of Gods had marr'd our 

peace. 
And sunder'd each from each. I am 

dying now 
Pierced by a poison'd dart. Save me. 

Thou knowest. 
Taught by some God, whatever herb or 

balm 
May clear the blood from poison, and 

thy fame 
Is blown thro' all the Tread, and to thee 
The shepherd brings his adder -bitten 

lamb, 
The wounded warrior climbs from Troy 

to thee. 
My life and death are in thy hand. The 

Gods 
Avenge on stony hearts a fruitless prayer 
For pity. Let me owe my life to thee. 
I wrought thee bitter wrong, but thou 

forgive, 
Forget it. Man is but the slave of Fate. 
CEnone, by thy love which once was 

mine, 
Help, heal me. I am poison'd to the 

heart.' 
' And I to mine ' she said ' Adulterer, 
Go back to thine adulteress and die ! ' 
He groan'd, he turn'd, and in tlie mist 

at once 
Became a shadow, sank and disappear'd, 



But, ere the mountain rolls into the plain. 
Fell headlong dead ; and of the shepherds 

one 
Their oldest, and the same who first had 

found 
Paris, a naked babe, among the woods 
Of Ida, following lighted on him there, 
And shouted, and the shepherds heard 

and came. 
One raised the Prince, one sleek'd the 

squalid hair. 
One kiss'd his hand, another closed his 

eyes. 
And then, remembering the gay playmate 

rear'd 
Among them, and forgetful of the man, 
Whose crime had half unpeopled Ilion, 

these 
All that day long labour'd, hewing the 

pines. 
And built their shepherd-prince a funeral 

pile; 
And, while the star of eve was drawing 

light 
From the dead sun, kindled the pyre, 

and all 
Stood round it, hush'd, or calling on his 

name. 
But when the white fog vanish'd like 

a ghost 
Before the day, and every topmost pine 
Spired into bluest heaven, still in her 

cave, 
Amazed, and ever seeming stared upon 
By ghastlier than the Gorgon head, a 

face, — 
His face deform'd by lurid blotch and 

blain — 
There, like a creature frozen to the heart 
Beyond all hope of warmth, QEnone sat 
Not moving, till in front of that ravine 
Which drowsed in gloom, self-darken'd 

from the west, 
The sunset blazed along the wall of Troy. 
Then her head sank, she slept, and 

thro' her dream 
A ghostly murmur floated, ' Come to me, 
Oinone ! I can wrong thee now no 

more, 
CEnone, my CEnone,' and the dream 



878 



ST. TELEMACHUS 



Wail'd in her, when she woke beneath 

the stars. 
What star could burn so low ? not 

Ilion yet. 
Wliat light was there ? She rose and 

slowly down, 
By the long torrent's ever-deepen'd roar. 
Paced, following, as in trance, the silent 

cry. 
She waked a bird of prey that scream'd 

and past ; 
She roused a snake that hissing writhed 

away ; 
A panther sprang across her path, she 

heard 
The shriek of some lost life among the 

pines, 
But when she gain'd the broader vale, 

and saw 
The ring of faces redden'd by the flames 
Enfolding that dark body which had lain 
Of old in her embrace, paused — and then 

ask'd 
Falteringly, ' Who lies on yonder pyre ? ' 
But every man was mute for reverence. 
Then moving quickly forward till the heat 
Smote on her brow, she lifted up a voice 
Of shrill command, ' Who burns upon 

the pyre ? ' 
Whereon their oldest and their boldest 

said, 
' He, whom thou wouldst not heal ! ' and 

all at once 
The morning light of happy marriage 

broke 
Thro' all the clouded years of widowhood, 
And mufliing up her comely head, and 

crying 
' Husband ! ' she leapt upon the funeral 

pile, 
And mixt herself with him and past in 

fire. 

ST. TELEMACHUS 

Had the fierce ashes of some fiery peak 
Been hurl'd so high they ranged about 

the globe ? 
For day by day, thro' many a blood-red 



In that four -hundredth summer after 

Christ, 
The wrathful sunset glared against a cross 
Reard on the tumbled ruins of an old 

fane 
No longer sacred to the Sun, and flamed 
On one huge slope beyond, where in his 

cave 
The man, whose pious hand had built 

the cross, 
A man who never changed a word with 

men, 
Fasted and pray'd, Telemachus the Saint. 

Eve after eve that haggard anchorite 
Would haunt the desolated fane, and 

there 
Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low 
' Vicisti Galilsee ' ; louder again, 
Spurning a shatter'd fragment of the 

God, 
' Vicisti Galilaee ! ' but — when now 
Bathed in that lurid crimson — ask'd ' Is 

earth 
On fire to the West ? or is the Demon- 
god 
Wroth at his fall ? ' and heard an answer 

'Wake 
Thou deedless dreamer, lazying out a life 
Of self-suppression, not of selfless love.' 
And once a flight of shadowy fighters 

crost 
The disk, and once, he thought, a shape 

with wings 
Came sweeping by him, and pointed to 

the West, 
And at his ear he heard a whisper 

' Rome ' 
And in his heart he cried ' The call of 

God!' 
And call'd arose, and, slowly plunging 

down 
Thro' that disastrous glory, set his face 
By waste and field and town of alien 

tongue, 
Following a hundred sunsets, and the 

sphere 
Of westward-wheeling stars ; and every 

dawn 
Struck from him his own shadow on to 

Rome. 



ST. TELEMACHUS 



879 



Foot -sore, way-worn, at length he 

touch'd his goal, 
The Christian city. All her splendour 

fail'd 
To lure those eyes that only yearn'd to 

see. 
Fleeting betwixt her column'd palace- 
walls. 
The shape with wings. Anon there past 

a crowd 
With shameless laughter, Pagan oath, 

and jest, 
Hard Romans brawling of their mon- 
strous games ; 
He, all but deaf thro' age and weari- 
ness, 
And muttering to himself ' The call of 

God' 
And borne along by that full stream of 

men. 
Like some old wreck on some indrawing 

sea, 
Gain'd their huge Colosseum. The caged 

beast 
Yell'd, as he yell'd of yore for Christian 

blood. 
Three slaves were trailing a dead lion 

away, 
One, a dead man. He stumbled in, and 

sat 
Blinded ; but when the momentary gloom, 
Made by the noonday blaze without, had 

left 
His aged eyes, he raised them, and 

beheld 
A blood -red awning waver overhead. 
The dust send up a steam of human 

blood. 
The gladiators moving toward their fight. 
And eighty thousand Christian faces 

watch 
Man murder man. A sudden strength 

from heaven. 
As some great shock may wake a palsied 

limb, 
Turn'd him again to boy, for up he 

sprang, 
And glided lightly down the stairs, and 

o'er 



The barrier that divided beast from man 

Slipt, and ran on, and flung himself 
between 

The gladiatorial swords, and call'd ' For- 
bear 

In the great name of Him who died for 
men, 

Christ Jesus ! ' For one moment after- 
ward 

A silence follow'd as of death, and then 

A hiss as from a wilderness of snakes, 

Then one deep roar as of a breaking sea. 

And then a shower of stones that stoned 
him dead, 

And then once more a silence as of death. 
His dream became a deed that woke 
the world, 

For while the frantic rabble in half-amaze 

Stared at him dead, thro' all the nobler 
hearts 

In that vast Oval ran a shudder of shame. 

The Baths, the Forum gabbled of his 
death. 

And preachers linger'd o'er his dying 
words. 

Which would not die, but echo'd on to 
reach 

Honorius, till he heard them, and de- 
creed 

That Rome no more should wallow in 
this old lust 

Of Paganism, and make her festal hour 

Dark with the blood of man who mur- 
der'd man. 



[For Honorius, who succeeded to the sover- 
eignty over Europe, supprest the gladiatorial 
combats practised of old in Rome, on occasion 
of the following event. There was one Tele- 
machus, embracing the ascetic mode of life, who 
setting out from the East and arriving at Rome 
for this very purpose, while that accursed spec- 
tacle was being performed, entered himself the 
circus, and descending into the arena, attempted 
to hold back those who wielded deadly weapons 
against each other. The spectators of the mur- 
derous fray, possest with the drunken glee ot 
the demon who delights in such bloodshed, stoned 
to death the preacher of peace. The admirable 
Emperor learning this put a stop to that evil ex- 
hibition.— Theodoret's Ecclesiastical History. \ 



88o 



AKBAR'S DREAM 



AKBAR'S DREAM 

An Inscription by Abul Fazl for 
A Temple in Kashmir (Bloch- 
mann xxxii. ). 

God in every temple I see people that 
see thee, and in every language I hear 
spoken, people praise thee. 

Polytheism and Islam feel after thee. 

Each reUgion says, ' Thou art one, with- 
out equal.' 

If it be a mosque people murmur the 
holy prayer, and if it be a Christian Church, 
people ring the bell from love to Thee. 

Sometimes I frequent the Christian 
cloister, and sometimes the mosque. 

But it is thou whom I search from 
temple to temple. 

Thy elect have no dealings with either 
heresy or orthodoxy ; for neither of them 
stands behind the screen of thy truth. 

Heresy to the heretic, and religion to 
the orthodox. 

But the dust of the rose-petal belongs to 
the heart of the perfume seller. 

Akbar awif Abul Fazl before the palace 
at Futehpur-Sikri at night. 

' Light of the nations ' ask'd his 
Chronicler 

Of Akbar ' what has darken'd thee to- 
night ? ' 

Then, after one quick glance upon the 
stars, 

And turning slowly toward him, Akbar 
said 

' The shadow of a dream — an idle one 

It may be. Still I raised my heart to 
heaven, 

1 pray'd against the dream. To pray, 

to do — 
To pray, to do according to the prayer. 
Are, both, to worship Alia, but the 

prayers. 
That have no successor in deed, are faint 
And pale in Alla's eyes, fair mothers 

they 
Dying in childbirth of dead sons. I vow'd 
Whate'er my dreams, I still would do 

the right 



Thro' all the vast dominion which a sword. 
That only conquers men to conquer 

peace. 
Has won me. Alia be my guide ! 

But come, 
My noble friend, my faithful counsellor, 
Sit by my side. While thou art one 

with me, 
I seem no longer like a lonely man 
In the king's garden, gathering here and 

there 
From each fair plant the blossom choicest- 
grown 
To wreathe a crown not only for the 

king 
But in due time for every Mussulman, 
Brahmin, and Buddhist, Christian, and 

Parsee, 
Thro' all the warring world of Hindustan. 
Well spake thy brother in his hymn to 

heaven 
' ' Thy glory baffles wisdom. All the 

tracks 
Of science making toward Thy Perfect - 

ness 
Are blinding desert sand ; we scarce car- 
spell 
The Alif of Thine alphabet of Love." 
He knows Himself, men nor themselve: 

nor Him, 
For every splinter'd fraction of a sect 
Will clamour " / am on the Perfect Way, 
All else is to perdition." 

Shall the rose 
Cry to the lotus '< No flower thou " ? the 

palm 
Call to the cypress " I alone am fair " ? 
The mango spurn the melon at his foot ? 
"Mine is the one fruit Alia made for 

man." 
Look how the living pulse of Alia beat? 
Thro' all His world. If every single star 
Should shriek its claim " I only am in 

heaven " 
Why that were such sphere-music as the 

Greek 
Had hardly dream'd of. There is light 

in all, 
And light, with more or less of shade, 

in all 



AKBAR'S DREAM 



Man-modes of worship ; but our Ulama, 
Who " sitthig on green sofas contem- 
plate 
The torment of the danin'd " ah-eady, 

these 
Are Hke wild brutes new -caged — the 

narrower 
The cage, the more their fury. Me they 

front 
With sullen brows. What wonder ! I 

decreed 
That even the dog was clean, that men 

may taste 
Swine-flesh, drink wine ; they know too 

that whene'er 
In our free Hall, where each philosophy 
And mood of faith may hold its own, 

they blurt 
Their furious formalisms, I but hear 
The clash of tides that meet in narrow 

seas. — 
Not the Great Voice not the true Deep. 

To drive 
A people from their ancient fold of Faith, 
And wall them up perforce in mine — 

unwise, 
Unkinglike ; — and the morning of my 

reign 
Was redden'd by that cloud of shame 

when I . . . 
I hate the rancour of their castes and 

creeds, 
I let men worship as they will, I reap 
No revenue from the field of unbelief. 
I cull from every faith and race the best 
And bravest soul for counsellor and 

friend. 
I loathe the very name of infidel. 
I stagger at the Koran and the sword. 
I shudder at the Christian and the stake ; 
Yet "Alia," says their sacred book, "is 

Love," 
And when the Goan Padre quoting Him, 
Issa Ben Mariam, his own prophet, cried 
"Love one another little ones" and 

" bless" 
Whom ? even " your persecutors " ! there 

methought 
The cloud was rifted by a purer gleam 
Than glances from the sun of our Islam. 
T 



And thou rememberest what a fury 

shook 
Those pillars of a moulder'd faith, when 

he, 
That other, prophet of their fall, pro- 
claimed 
His Master as "the Sun of Righteous- 
ness," 
Yea, Alia here on earth, who caught 

and held 
His people by the bridle-rein of Truth. 
What art thou saying? "And was 

not Alia call'd 
In old Iran the Sun of Love ? and Love 
The net of truth ? " 

A voice from old Iran ! 
Nay, but I know it — his^ the hoary Sheik, 
On whom the women shrieking "Atheist" 

flung 
Filth from the roof, the mystic melodist 
Who all but lost himself in Alia, him 

AbCi Said 

— a sun but dimly seen 
Here, till the mortal morning mists of 

earth 
Fade in the noon of heaven, when creed 

and race 
Shall bear false witness, each of each, no 

more, 
But find their limits by that larger light, 
And overstep them, moving easily 
Thro' after-ages in the love of Truth, 
The truth of Love. 

The sun, the sun ! they rail 
At me the Zoroastrian. Let the Sun, 
Who heats our earth to yield us grain 

and fruit. 
And laughs upon th}- field as well as 

mine. 
And warms the blood of Shiah and 

Sunnee, 
Symbol the Eternal ! Yea and may not 

kings 
Express Him also by their warmth of 

love 
For all they rule — by equal law for all ? 
By deeds a light to men ? 

But no such light 
Glanced from our Presence on the face 

of one, 

3 L 



882 



AKBAR'S DREAM 



Who breaking in upon us yestermorn, 
With all the Hells a-glare in either eye, 
Yell'd "hast thoti brought us down a 

new Koran 
From heaven ? art thou the Prophet ? 

canst thott work 
Miracles ? " and the wild horse, anger, 

plunged 
To fling me, and fail'd. Miracles ! no, 

not I 
Nor he, nor any. I can but lift the torch 
Of Reason in the dusky cave of Life, 
And gaze on this great miracle, the 

World, 
Adoring That who made, and makes, 

and is. 
And is not, what I gaze on — all else 

Form, 
Ritual, varying with the tribes of men. 
Ay but, my friend, thou knowest I 

hold that forms 
Are needful : only let the hand that rules. 
With politic care, with utter gentleness. 
Mould them for all his people. 

And what are forms ? 
Fair garments, plain or rich, and fitting 

close 
Or flying looselier, warm'd but by the 

heart 
Within them, moved but by the living 

limb. 
And cast aside, when old, for newer,- — 

Forms ! 
The Spiritual in Nature's market-place — 
The silent Alphabet-of-heaven-in-man 
Made vocal — banners blazoning a Power 
That is not seen and rules from far away — 
A silken cord let down from Paradise, 
^^^len fine Philosophies would fail, to 

draw 
The crowd from wallowing in the mire 

of earth. 
And all the more, when these behold 

their Lord, 
Who shaped the forms, obey them, and 

himself 
Here on this bank in some way live the 

hfe 
Beyond the bridge, and serve that Infinite 
Within us, as without, that All-in-all, 



And over all, the never-changing One 
And ever-changing Many, in praise of 

Whom 
The Christian bell, the cry from off the 

mosque. 
And vaguer voices of Polytheism 
Make but one music, harmonising 

" Pray." 
There westward — under yon slow- 
falling star, 
The Christians own a Spiritual Head ; 
And following thy true counsel, by thine 

aid. 
Myself am such in our Islam, for no 
Mirage of glory, but for power to fuse 
My myriads into union under one ; 
To hunt the tiger of oppression out 
From office ; and to spread the Divine 

Faith 
Like calming oil on all their stormy 

creeds. 
And fill the hollows between wave and 

wave ; 
To nurse my children on the milk of 

Truth, 
And alchemise old hates into the gold 
Of Love, and make it current ; and beat 

back 
The menacing poison of intolerant priests. 
Those cobras ever setting up their hoods — 
One Alia ! one Kalifa ! 

Still — at times 
A doubt, a fear, — and y ester afternoon 
I dream'd, — thou knowest how deep a 

well of love 
My heart is for my son, Saleem, mine 

heir, — 
And yet so wild and wayward that my 

dream — 
He glares askance at thee as one of those 
Who mix the wines of heresy in the cup 

Of counsel — so — I pray thee 

Well, I dream'd 
That stone by stone I rear'd a sacred 

fane, 
A temple, neither Pagod, Mosque, nor 

Church, 
But loftier, simpler, always open-door'd 
To every breath from heaven, and Truth 

and Peace 



AKBAR'S DREAM 



And Love and Justice came and dwelt 

therein ; 
But while we stood rejoicing, I and thou, 
I heard a mocking laugh "' the new 

Koran ! " 
And on the sudden, and with a cry 

" Saleem " 
Thou, thou — I saw thee fall before me, 

and then 
Me too the black-wing'd Azrael over- 
came. 
But Death had ears and eyes ; I watch'd 

my son, 
And those that follow'd, loosen, stone 

from stone, 
All my fair work ; and from the ruin 

arose 
The shriek and curse of trampled millions, 

even 
As in the time before ; but while I 

groan'd. 
From out the sunset pour'd an alien race. 
Who fitted stone to stone again, and 

Truth, 
Peace, Love and Justice came and dwelt 

therein, 
Nor in the field without were seen or 

heard 
Fires of Suttee, nor wail of baby- wife. 
Or Indian widow ; and in sleep I said 
" All praise to Alia by whatever hands 
My mission be accomplish'd ! " but we 

hear 
Music : our palace is awake, and morn 
Has lifted the dark eyelash of the Night 
From off the rosy cheek of waking Day. 
Our hymn to the sun. They sing it. 

Let us go.' 

Hymn 
I 

Once again thou flamest heavenward, 

once again we see thee rise. 
Every morning is thy birthday gladdening 

human hearts and eyes. 
Every morning here we greet it, 

bowing lowly down before thee. 
Thee the Godlike, thee the changeless in 

thine ever-changing skies. 



Shadow-maker, shadow-slayer, arrowing 

light from clime to clime. 
Hear thy myriad laureates hail thee 

monarch in their woodland rhyme. 
Warble bird, and open flower, and, 

men, below the dome of azure 
Kneel adoring Him the Timeless in the 

flame that measures Time I 

NOTES TO AK BAR'S DREAM 

The great Mogul Emperor Akbar was born 
October 14, 1542, and died 1605. At 13 he suc- 
ceeded his father Humayun ; at 18 he himself 
assumed the sole charge of government. He 
subdued and ruled over fifteen large provinces ; 
his empire included all India north of the Vindhya 
Mountains — in the south of India he was not so 
successful. His tolerance of religions and his 
abhorrence of religious persecution put our Tudors 
to shame. He invented a new eclectic religion 
by which he hoped to unite all creeds, castes and 
peoples : and his legislation was remarkable for 
vigour, justice and humanity. 

' Thy glory baffles ivisdotn.' The Emperor 
quotes from a hymn to the Deity by Faizi, brother 
of Abul Fazl, Akbar's chief friend and minister, 
who wrote the A in i Akbari (Annals of Akbar). 
His influence on his age was immense. It may 
be that he and his brother Faizi led Akbar's 
mind away from Islam and the Prophet — this 
charge is brought against him by every Muham- 
madan writer ; but Abul Fazl also led his sover- 
eign to a true appreciation of his duties, and 
from the moment that he entered Court, the 
problem of successfully ruling over mixed races, 
which Islam in few other countries had to solve, 
was carefully considered, and the policy of toler- 
ation was the result (Blochmann xxix.). 

Abxil Fazl thus gives an account of himself 
' The advice of my Father with difficulty kept me 
back from acts of folly ; my mind had no rest and 
my heart felt itself drawn to the sages of Mongolia 
or to the hermits on Lebanon. I longed for 
interviews with the Llamas of Tibet or with the 
padres of Portugal, and I would gladly sit with 
the priests of the Parsis and th« learned of the 
Zendavesta. I was sick of the learned of my own 
land.' 

He became the intimate friend and adviser ot 
Akbar, and helped him in his tolerant system ot 
government. Professor Blochmann writes * Im- 
pressed with a favourable idea of the value of his 
Hindu subjects, he (Akbar) had resolved when 
pensively sitting in the evenings on the solitary 



v^ 



.VOTES TO .AA'/i.-t/i^S DA'£.-t.V 



sKweai F«t*hpur-S«kri K^ rule wuhanevtnhaml 
all men in his donnnions ; but ;\s the extreuit' 
views v\f tho learne.l j\nd the l;\\v\-ens continually 
urge^i him to porstvute instead of to heal, he 
iivstituiev] discus&ionsL, because, believing himself 
to be in emw, he thvMight il his vluty as ruler to 
inqxnre.* * These discussions tov^k y"*'**-"* ex-s^ry 
rhursday nii^ht in the IKulat-khana a buildinj; 
at Futehpxir - Sikri, erected for the purjxxse' 
vMallesx.M)V 

In these discu^ons Ahvtl Pari became a grent 
fk^vver, and he induced the chief of the disputants 
todnwv up a document detinitv^ the * divine Kaith ' 
as it w-ns called, and assi^nin^ to Akbjir the rank 
of a Mujahid, or supreme khalifah, the vicegerent 
of the one true Gvxl. 

Abul Farl was tinally murxlered at the instigix- 
lioji of Aklxur's son Sv;»lim, who in his Memoirs 
declares that it wns Abul Fa;l who had v^erv«rtei.i 
his fathers mind so that he denies.! the divine 
mis&iivi vvf Mahomet, and turned away his love 
from his son. 

/"j/sj. W'hen Aklwr conquerevl the North-West 
Provinces of India. Faiw, then ao, be^ran his liht 
as a p>>et, and earned his Hviixg as a ph>"sician. 
He is neportevl to ha\-e beeJi \xry generous and to 
hax-e treated the jxvir for nothins;. His fi\me 
reached Akbjir's ear* who commandevl him to 
come to the camp at Ohitw. Akb.ir was delighted 
with his Aixried knowledge and scholarship and 
made the poet teacher to his sons, Faiii at 53 
WMS .ipjXMntexl Chief Poet (.i.sSi^X He collected a 
fine libnin,- of 4^^x^ MSS, and died at the ;v§e of 
40 (,1595) when Aklvir incvvp^xrated his collection 
of rare books in the Imperial Libnu-y. 

Tit nyitrrt^ «*.»»■/./ flf Nimi*tj;titJi. Akl\ar"s 
rapid conquests and the goo>.l s^'kX'ernment of his 
fifteen pro\-iiH>es with their complete military, 
civil and political systems n\ake him conspicuous 
among the great kings of histvvry. 

rif C^m P,Urr. Abul Fajl relate* that ' one 
night the lh.\dat-kh,»na was brightened by the 
presence of Padre Ros.lolpho, who tor intelligence 
ami wisdv^m w;\s u:iri\-allet.i amo:\g Christian 
doctors. Sex-eral carping and bigoted men 
attacked hint and this afforvled an opportunity for 
the display of the calm judgment and justice of 
the assembh*. l"\>ese men brvMtght forward the 
old receixvd assert io^ns, and did not attempt to 
arriw at tnuh by reasoning. Their statements 
were torn to pieces, and they were nearly put to 
shame, when they began to attack the contradic- 
tions of the Oospel. btu they cv>uld not prox'C their 
assertic^ns. With perfect calmness, and earnest 
cv>j>\-iction of the truth he replied to their argu> 
ments." 



Af>ti Stt'tJ, ' Lox-e is the net of Ti-uth, Lo\-e is 
the nvvvse of (."kxl ' is a quotation tYx^m the great 
Svitee ix>et .\bu S;»'id — Ix^rn A.i>. 9C<?. dii\l at tho 
.-vge of $3. He is a nn-stical poet, and some of 
his expressions have been cv»mpared to our George 
Herbert. Of Shaikh Abvi S;\*id it is recorvlevl 
th;it he s;»id, * when my atVairs had reacht a 
certain pitch 1 bvuievl under the dust my Kx^ks 
ajid oj-venevl a sliop on n»y own a«.vounH,:.«". began 
to teach with aulhorityX aj\d verily men repre- 
sentee! tne as that which I was tiot. until it came 
j to this, that they went K» the Q5dhi and lestifievl 
I against me of unlvlieN-^rhixxi ; and wvmen got 
j upon the rvx>fs and cast unclean things upo!\ me." 
j (i'},ir reprint fivm article in A".».*i«»«4i/ A'rt'iVfc, 
I March 1391, by C J. Pickering.) 

I .-Ia;"*. I am not aw;\re that there is .iny reconi 
of such intnisiv^n ujx^n the king's prix'acy, but the 
expressions in the text occur in a letter sent by 
Akbar's foster-l\rother A«i». who refused to come 
to court when s\nnmonet.i and threw up his 
gON-erJiment, and 'after writing an insolent and 
reprwxchful letter to Aklwr in which he asked him 
if he had ivceivex.1 a Ixx^k fivni heaven, or if he 
cc»uld wv^rk minxcles like M.'vlion»et that he pre- 
sumed to intrvxluce a new religion, warned him 
that he was on the way to eternal perdition, and 
conchidevi with a prayer to GckI to bring him 
Kick into the jvath ot" sal\-ation ' ^F.lphinstoneV. 

* The Koran, the Old and New Testament, and 
the Psalms of David are callevl .\\vfjr by way of 
excellence, and their followers " People of the 
l^ook " * (ElphinstoneX 

AkAttr according to Abdel Kadir had his son 
Murad instructed in the Gospel, and ttsed to 
make him begin his lessons * In the name of 

i Christ ' instead of in the usual way ' In the n;ui\e 

i ofCnxi.' 

I Malleson says * This must ha\-e happened because 
I Aklvu- states it. but of the forced conwrsions 1 
. hax-e found no recorvl. This must ha\-e taken 
! place whilst he was still a minor, and whilst the 
> chief authority was wielded by Bairam.' 

The Hindus are fond of pUsiiniAges and Akbar 
remo\-ed a iemunerati\-e tax raised by his prede- 
cessors on pilgrimages. He also abcJished the 
ferjGi or capitation tax on those who differed from 
the Mahomedan faith. He discouraget.1 all Ar« 
*v^"«\" praj-ers, fasts and pilgrimages. 

Smfftf^ .\kKir decreed th?\t e^■er^• widow who 
showed the least desire not to be burnt on hef 



7///t liANDlTS DEAT/r 



885 



hiisljarifl's funeral pyre, should be let «o free and 
unharmed. 

hahy-wi/e. He forbad marriage before the aye 

of piil;erty. 

Indian -widow. Akbar ordained tliat re- 
rfuirriagc was lawful. 

Music. 'About a watch before daybreak,' 
says Abul Fazl, the muKicians played to the kintj 
in the palace. ' His Majesty had such a know- 
ledge of the science of music as trained musicians 
do not possess,' 

' The Dii'ine P'ailh.' The Divine Faith slowly 
passed away under the irnrnediate successors of 
Akbar. An idea of what the Divine Faith wa.s 
may be gathered from the inscription at the head 
of the poem. The document r<;fcrred to, Abul 
Fazl says ' brought about excellent results (i) the 
Court became a gathering place of the sages and 
learned of all creeds ; the go<'j<] doctrines of all 
religious systems were recognized, and their de- 
fects were not allowed to obscure their good 
features ; (2) perfect toleration or p'race with all 
was established ; and (3) the perverse and evil- 
minded were covered with shame on seeing the 
disinterested motives of His Majesty, and these 
stood in the pillory of disgrace.' Dated Septem- 
ber 1579— kagab 9^7 (Ul'^-'chrnanri xiv.). 



THE BANDIT'.S DEATH 
TO SIR WALT1':R SCOTT » 

OkEAT AND GALLANT Sa/TT, 

TkUE GE.STLE.MAN, HEART, BLOOD AND BONE, 

1 WOULD IT HAD BKFN MV LOT 

To HAVE SEEN THKK, AND HKAKD THKK, A.'D 
KNOWN, 

Sir, dr; you .see thi.s dagger? nay, why 

do you start aside ? 
I was not going to stab you, tho' I am 

the Bandit's bride. 

Yoii have set a price on his head : I may 

claim it withobt a lie. 
What have I here in the cloth ? I will 

show it you Ijy-and-by. 

1 I have adopted Sir Walter Scott's version of 
the following story as given in his last journal 
(Death of II Bizarro) but I have taken the liberty 
of making some slight alterations. 



Sir, I was oncii a wife. I had f;ne \mQi 

Hummer of bliss. 
Hut the iiandit had woo'd rne in vain, 

and he stabb'd my J'icro with thi«. 

And he dragg'd me up there to \m cave 
in the mountain, and there one 
d.'iy 

He liad left his dagger behind him. I 
found if. I hid it av/ay. 

I' or he reek'd with the birxxl of Piero ; 

his kisses were red with his crime, 
And I cried to the SainU to avenge me. 

They heard, they bided their time. 

In a while I bore bim a son, and he 
loved to dandle the child, 

And that was a link l^etween us ; fnit I 
— to be reconciled ? — 

No, by the .Mother of Gofl, tho' I think 

I hated him less, 
And — well, if I sinn'd last night, I will 

fmd the Priest and confess. 

Listen ! we three were alone in the dell 

at the close of the day. 
I was lilting a song to the \}a\)C, and it 

laugh'd like a dawn in May. 

Then on a sudden we saw your soldiers 

crossing the ridge, 
And he caught my little one from me : 

we dipt down under the bridge 

By the great dead pine — you know it — 
and heard as we crouch'd l>elow, 

The clatter of arms, and voices, and men 
passing to and fro. 

Black was the night when we crept away 
— not a star in the sky — 

Hush'd as the heart of the grave, till the 
little one utter'd a cry. 

I whisper'd 'give it to me,' but he would 

not answer me — then 
lie gript it so hard by the throat that 

the boy never cried again. 



886 



THE CHURCH-WARDEN AND THE CURATE 



We return'd to his cave — the link was 
broken — he sobb'd and he wept, 

And cursed himself ; then he yawn'd, for 
the wretch could sleep, and he 
slept 

Ay, till dawn stole into the cave, and a 

ray red as blood 
Glanced on the strangled face — I could 

make Sleep Death, if I would — 

Glared on at the murder'd son, and the 
murderous father at rest, . , . 

I drove the blade that had slain my hus- 
band thrice thro' his breast. 

He was loved at least by his dog : it was 
chain'd, but its horrible yell 

* She has kill'd him, has kill'd him, has 
kill'd him ' rang out all down 
thro' the dell, 

Till I felt I could end myself too with the 
dagger — so deafen'd and dazed — 

Take it, and save me from it ! I fled. 
I was all but crazed 

With the grief that gnaw'd at my heart, 
and the weight that dragg'd at 
my hand ; 

But thanks to the Blessed Saints that I 
came on none of his band ; 

And the band will be scatter'd now their 

gallant captain is dead. 
For I with this dagger of his — do you 

doubt me ? Here is his head ! 



THE CHURCH -WARDEN 
AND THE CURATE 

This is written in the dialect which was cur- 
rent in my youth at Spilsby and in the country 
about it. 

I 

Eh ? good daay ! good daay ! thaw it 
bean't not mooch of a daay, 

Nasty, casselty ^ weather ! an' mea haafe 
down wi' my haay ! ^ 

1 ' Casselty,' casualty, chance weather. 

2 ' Haafe down wi' my haay,' while my grass 
is only half-mown. 



How be the farm gittin on ? noaways. 

Gittin on i'deead ! 
Why, tonups was haafe on 'em fingers 

an' toas,^ an' the mare brokken- 

kneead. 
An' pigs didn't sell at fall,^ an' wa lost 

wer Haldeny cow, 
An' it beats ma to knaw wot .she died on, 

but wool's looking oop ony how. 



An' soa they've maade tha a parson, an' 

thou'll git along, niver fear, 
Fur I bean chuch- warden mysen i' the 

parish fur fifteen year. 
Well — sin ther bea chuch-wardens, ther 

mun be parsons an' all, 
An' if t'one stick alongside t'uther^ the 

chuch weant happen a fall. 

IV 

Fur I wur a Baptis wonst, an' agean the 

toithe an' the raate. 
Till I fun * that it warn't not the gaainist ^ 

waay to the narra Gaate. 
An' I can't abear 'em, I can't, fur a lot 

on 'em coom'd ta-year^ — 
I wur down wi' the rheumatis then — to 

my pond towesh thessens theere — 
Sa I sticks like the ivin''' as long as I 

lives to the owd chuch now, 
Fur they wesh'd their sins i' my pond, 

an' I doubts theypoison'd the cow. 



Ay, an' ya seed the Bishop. They says 

'at he coom'd fra nowt — 
Burn i' traade. Sa I warrants 'e niver 

said haafe wot 'e thowt, 
But 'e creeapt an' 'e crawl'd along, till 

'e feeald 'e could howd 'is oan, 
Then 'e married a great Yerl's darter, 

an' sits o' the Bishop's throan. 

1 ' Fingers and toes,' a disease in turnips. 

2 ' Fall,' autumn. 

3 ' If t'5ne stick alongside t'uther,' if the one 
hold by the other. One is pronounced like ' own.' 

4 ' Fun,' found. 5 'Gaainist,' nearest. 
6 'Ta-year,' this year. ^ ' Ivin,' ivy. 



THE CHURCH-WARDEN AND THE CURATE 



887 



Now I'll gie tha a bit o' my mind an' 

tha weant be taakin' offence, 
Fur thou be a big scholard now wi' a 

hoonderd haacre o' sense — 
But sich an obstropulous ^ lad — naay, 
i naay — fur I minds tha sa well, 

Tha'd niver not hopple ^ thy tongue, an' 

the tongue's sit afire o' Hell, 
As I says to my missis to-daay, when she 

hurl'd a plaate at the cat 
An' anoother agean my noase. Ya was 

niver sa bad as that. 



But I minds when i' Howlaby beck won 

daay ya was ticklin' o' trout, 
An' keeaper 'e seed ya an roon'd, an' 'e 

beal'd ^ to ya ' Lad coom hout ' 
An' ya stood oop naakt i' the beck, an' 

ya tell'd 'im to knaw his awn 

plaace 
An' ya call'd 'im a clown, ya did, an' ya 

thraw'd the fish i' 'is faace. 
An' 'e torn'd * as red as a stag-tuckey's ^ 

wattles, but theer an' then 
I coamb'd 'im down, fur I promised ya'd 

niver not do it agean. 



An' I cotch'd tha wonst i' my garden, 
when thou was a height -year- 
howd,^ 

An' I fun thy pockets as full o' my pip- 
pins as iver they'd 'owd,^ 

An' thou was as pearky ^ as owt, an' tha 
maade me as mad as mad. 

But I says to tha ' keeap 'em, an' wel- 
come ' fur thou was the Parson's 
lad. 

1 ' Obstropulous,' obstreperous — here the Cur- 
ate makes a sign of deprecation. 

2 ' Hopple' or 'hobljle,' to tie the legs of a 
skittish cow when she is being milked. 

3 ' Beal'd,' bellowed. 

■1 In such words as ' torned ' (turned), 'hurled,' 
the r is hardly audible. 

5 ' Stag-tuckey,' turkey-cock. 

6 ' Height-year-howd,' eight-year-old. 

7 ''Owd,'hold. 8 ' Pearky,' pert. 



An Parson 'e 'ears on it all, an' then 

taakes kindly to me, 
An' then I wur chose Chuch-warden an' 

coom'd to the top o' the tree, 
Fur Quoloty's hall my friends, an' they 

maakes ma a help to the poor. 
When I gits the plaate fuller o' Soondays 

nor ony chuch-warden afoor. 
Fur if iver thy feyther 'ed riled me I kep' 

mysen meeak as a lamb, 
An' .saw by the Graace o' the Lord, Mr. 

Harry, I ham wot I ham. 



But Parson 'e will speak out, saw, now 

'e be .sixty-seven, 
Fle'll niver swap Owlby an' Scratby fur 

owt but the Kingdom o' Heaven ; 
An' thou'll be 'is Curate 'ere, but, if iver 

tha means to git 'igher, 
Tha mun tackle the sins o' the Wo'ld,' 

an' not the faults o' the Squire. 
An' I reckons tha'U light of a livin' some- 

wheers i' the Wowd ^ or the Fen, 
If tha cottons down to thy betters, an' 

keeaps thysen to thysen. 
But niver not .speak plaain out, if tha 

wants to git forrards a bit. 
But creeap along the hedge-bottoms, an' 

thou'll be a Bishop yit. 



Naay, but tha vinn speiik hout to the 

Baptises here i' the town, 
l'\ir moiist on 'em talks agean tithe, an' 

I'd like tha to preach 'em down, 
Fur they\'Q. bin a-preachin' fuea down, 

they heve, an' I haates 'em now, 
Fur they leaved their na.sty .sins i' my 

pond, an' it poison'd the cow. 

1 ' Wo'ld,' the world. Short o. 

2 ' Wowd,' wold. 



S88 



CHARITY 



to myself ' one plunge — then quiet 
for evermore.' 



CHARITY 



What am I doing, you say to me, 
' wasting the sweet summer hours' ? 

Haven't you eyes ? I am dressing the 
grave of a woman with flowers. 



For a woman ruin'd the world, as God's 

own scriptures tell, 
And a man ruin'd mine, but a woman, 

God bless her, kept me from Hell. 

Ill 

Love me ? O yes, no doubt — how long 
— till you threw me aside ! 

Dresses and laces and jewels and never 
a ring for the bride. 

IV 

All very well just now to be calling me 

darling and sweet, 
And after a while would it matter so 

much if I came on the street ? 



You when I met you first — when he 
brought you ! — I turn'd away 

And the hard blue eyes have it still, that 
stare of a beast of prey. 



You were his friend — you — you — when 
he promised to make me his bride, 

And you knew that he meant to betray 
me — you knew — you knew that 
he lied. 

VI 1 

He married an heiress, an orphan with 
half a shire of estate, — 

I sent him a desolate wail and a curse, 
when I learn'd my fate. 



For I used to play with the knife, creep 
down to the river-shore, 



Moan 



Would the man have a touch of remorse 
when he heard what an end was 
mine ? 

Or brag to his fellow rakes of his conquest 
over their wine ? 



Money — my hire — his money — I sent 
him back what he gave, — 

Will you move a little that way ? your 
shadow falls on the grave. 



XI 

Two trains clash'd : then and there he 
was crush'd in a moment and 
died, 

But the new-wedded wife was unharm'd, 
tho' sitting close at his side. 

XII 

She found my letter upon him, my wail 

of reproach and scorn ; 
I had cursed the woman he married, and 

him, and the day I was born. 



They put him aside for ever, and after a 

week — no more — 
A stranger as welcome as Satan — a widow 

came to my door : 



So I turn'd my face to the wall, I was 
mad, I was raving-wild, 

I was close on that hour of dishonour, 
the birth of a baseborn child. 



O you that can flatter your victims, and 
juggle, and lie and cajole, 

Man, can you even guess at the love of 
a soul for a soul ? 



KAPIOLANI 



I had cursed her as woman and wife, 
and in wife and woman I found 

The tenderest Christ -Hke creature that 
ever stept on the ground. 



She watch'd me, she nursed me, she fed 
me, she sat day and night by my 
bed, 

Till the joyless birthday came of. a boy 
born happily dead. 



And her name ? what was it ? I ask'd 
her. She said with a sudden glow 

On her patient face ' My dear, I will 
tell you before I go..' 



And I when I learnt it at last, I shriek'd, 

I sprang from my seat, 
I wept, and I kiss'd her hands, I flung 

myself down at her feet, 



XX 

And we pray'd together for him^ for hivi 
who had given her the name. 

She has left me enough to live on. I 
need no wages of shame. 



XXI 

She died of a fever caught when a nurse 

in a hospital ward. 
She is high in the Heaven of Heavens, 

she is face to face with her Lord, 



And He sees not her like anywhere in 
this pitiless world of ours ! 

I have told you my tale. Get you gone. 
I am dressing her grave with 
flowers. 



KAPIOLANI 

Kapiolani was a great chieftainess who lived 
in the Sandwich Islands at the beginning of this 
century. She won the cause of Christianity by 
openly defjang the priests of the terrible goddess 
Peele. In spite of their threats of vengeance she 
ascended the volcano I\Iauna-Loa, then clambered 
down over a bank of cinders 400 feet high to the 
great lake of fire (nine miles round) — Kilauea — 
the home and haunt of the goddess, and flung 
into the boiling lava the consecrated berries 
which it was sacrilege for a woman to handle. 



When from the terrors of Nature a 
people have fashion'd and worship 
a Spirit of Evil, 

Blest be the Voice of the Teacher who 
calls to them 

' Set yourselves free ! ' 



Noble the Saxon who hurl'd at his Idol 

a valorous weapon in olden 

England ! 
Great and greater, and greatest of women, 

island heroine, Kapiolani 
Clomb the mountain, and flung the berries, 

and dared the Goddess, and freed 

the people 
Of Hawa-i-ee ! 



A people believing that Peele the Goddess 

would wallow in fiery riot and 

revel 
On Kilauea, 
Dance in a fountain of flame with lier 

devils, or shake with her thunders 

and shatter her island, 
Rolling her anger 
Thro' blasted valley and flaring forest 

in blood-red cataracts down to 

the sea ! 



Long as the lava-light 
Glares from the lava-lake 
Dazing the starlight, 



890 



THE DAWN— THE MAKING OF MAN 



Long as the silvery vapour in daylight 
Over the mountain 

Floats, will the glory of Kapiolani be 
mingled with either on Hawa-i-ee. 



What said her Priesthood ? 

' Woe to this island if ever a woman 

should handle or gather the berries 

of Peele ! 
Accursed were she ! 
And woe to this island if ever a woman 

should climb to the dwelling of 

Peele the Goddess ! 
Accursed were she ! ' 



One from the Sunrise 

Dawn'd on His people, and slowly before 

him 
Vanish'd shadow-like 
Gods and Goddesses, 
None but the terrible Peele remaining as 

Kapiolani ascended her mountain, 
Baffled her priesthood. 
Broke the Taboo, 
Dipt to the crater, 
Call'd on the Power adored by the 

Christian, and crying ' I dare her, 

let Peele avenge herself ! 
Into the flame-billow dash'd the berries, 

and drove the demon from Hawa- 



THE DAWN 

You are but children." 

Egyptian Priest to Solon. 



Red of the Dawn ! 
Screams of a babe in the red-hot palms 
of a Moloch of Tyre, 
Man with his brotherless dinner on 
man in the tropical wood. 
Priests in the name of the Lord passing 
souls thro' fire to the fire. 
Head-hunters and boats of Dahomey 
that float upon human blood ! 



Red of the Dawn ! 
Godless fury of peoples, and Christless 
frolic of kings. 
And the bolt of war dashing down 

upon cities and blazing farms. 
For Babylon was a child new-born, 
and Rome was a babe in arms, 
And London and Paris and all the rest 
are as yet but in leading-strings. 

Ill 
Dawn not Day, 
While scandal is mouthing a bloodless 
name at her cannibal feast. 
And rake-ruin'd bodies and souls go 
down in a common wreck. 
And the press of a thousand cities is 
prized for it smells of the beast, 
Or easily violates virgin Truth for a 
coin or a cheque. 

IV 

Dawn not Day ! 
Is it Shame, so few should have climb'd 
from the dens in the level below. 
Men, with a heart and a soul, no 

slaves of a four-footed will ? 
But if twenty million of summers are 
stored in the sunlight still. 
We are far from the noon of man, there 
is time for the race to grow. 



Red of the Dawn ! 
Is it turning a fainter red ? so be it, but 
when shall we lay 
The Ghost of the Brute that is walking 
and haunting us yet, and be free ? 
In a hundred, a thousand winters ? 
Ah, what will oia- children be, 
The men of a hundred thousand, a 
million summers away ? 

THE MAKING OF MAN 

Where is one that, born of woman, 

altogether can escape 
From the lower world within him, moods 

of tiger, or of ape ? 



THE DREAMER— MECHANOPHIL US 



891 



Man as yet is being made, and ere the 
crowning Age of ages, 
Shall not reon after eeon pass and touch 
him into shape ? 

All about him shadow still, but, while 

the races flower and fade. 
Prophet -eyes may catch a glory slowly 

gaining on the shade. 
Till the peoples all are one, and all 

their voices blend in choric 
Hallelujah to the Maker ' It is finish'd. 

Man is made.' 



THE DREAMER 

On a midnight in midwinter when all 

but the winds were dead, 
' The meek shall inherit the earth ' was 

a Scripture that rang thro' his 

head. 
Till he dream'd that a Voice of the Earth 

went wailingly past him and said : 

* I am losing the light of my Youth 
And the Vision that led me of old. 
And I clash with an iron Truth, 
When I make for an Age of gold. 
And I would that my race were run, 
For teeming with liars, and madmen, 

and knaves, 
And wearied of Autocrats, Anarchs, 

and Slaves, 
And darken 'd with doubts of a Faith 

that saves, 
And crimson with battles, and hollow 

with graves, 
To the wail of my winds, and the 

moan of my waves 
I whirl, and I follow the Sun.' 

Was it only the wind of the Night shrill- 
ing out Desolation and wrong 

Thro' a dream of the dark ? Yet he 
thought that he answer'd her wail 
with a song — 

Moaning your losses, O Earth, 
Heart-weary and overdone ! 

But all's well that ends well, 
Whirl, and follow the Sun ! 



He is racing from heaven to heaven 
And less will be lost than won, 

For all's well that ends well, 
Whirl, and follow the Sun ! 

The Reign of the Meek upon earth, 
O weary one, has it begun ? 

But all's well that ends well. 
Whirl, and follow the Sun ! 

For moans will have grown sphere - 
music 

Or ever your race be run ! 
And all's well that ends well, 

Whirl, and follow the Sun ! 



MECHANOPHILUS 

(In the time of the first railways.) 

Now first we stand and understand. 

And sunder false from true. 
And handle boldly with the hand, 

And see and shape and do. 

Dash back that ocean with a pier, 

Strow yonder mountain flat, 
A railway there, a tunnel here. 

Mix me this Zone with that ! 

Bring me my horse — my horse ? my wings 

That I may soar the sky, 
For Thought into the outward springs, 

I find her with the eye. 

O will she, moonlike, sway the main, 
And bring or chase the storm, 

Who was a shadow in the brain. 
And is a living form ? 

Far as the Future vaults her skies. 
From this my vantage ground 

To those still-working energies 
I spy nor term nor bound. 

As we surpass our fathers' skill. 
Our sons will shame our own ; 

A thousand things are hidden still 
And not a hundred known. 



892 



RIFLEMEN FORM I — THE WANDERER 



And had some prophet spoken true 

Of all we shall achieve, 
The wonders were so wildly new, 

That no man would believe. 

Meanwhile, my brothers, work, and wield 

The forces of to-day, 
And plow the Present like a field, 

And garner all you may ! 

You, what the cultured surface grows, 
Dispense with careful hands : 

Deep under deep for ever goes, 
Heaven over heaven expands. 

RIFLEMEN FORM! 

There is a sound of thunder afar. 
Storm in the South that darkens the day ! 
Storm of battle and thunder of war ! 
Well if it do not roll our way. 
Storm, Storm, Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready against the storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form ! 

Be not deaf to the sound that warns. 
Be not guU'd by a despot's plea ! 
Are figs of thistles ? or grapes of thorns ? 
How can a despot feel with the Free ? 
Form, Form, Riflemen Form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form ! 

Let your reforms for a moment go I 
Lobk to your butts, and take good aims ! 
Better a rotten borough or so 
Than a rotten fleet and a city in flames ! 
Storm, Storm, Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready against the storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form ! 

Form, be ready to do or die ! 
Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's ! 
True we have got — such a faithful ally 
That only the Devil can tell what he 

means. 
Form, Form, Riflemen Form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form ! ^ 

1 I have been asked to republish this old poem, 
which was first published in ' The Times,' May 9, 
1S59, before the Volunteer movement began. 



THE TOURNEY 

Ralph would fight in Edith's sight, 
For Ralph was Edith's lover. 

Ralph went down like a fire to the fight. 

Struck to the left and struck to the right, 
Roll'd them over and over. 

' Gallant Sir Ralph,' said the king. 

Casques were crack'd and hauberks hack'd, 

Lances snapt in sunder. 
Rang the stroke, and sprang the blood. 
Knights were thwack'd and riven, and 
hew'd 

Like broad oaks with thunder. 
' O what an arm,' said the king. 

Edith bow'd her stately head. 

Saw them lie confounded, 
Edith Montfort bow'd her head, 
Crown'd her knight's, and flush'd as red 

As poppies when she crown'd it. 
' Take her Sir Ralph,' said the king. 



THE WANDERER 

The gleam of household sunshine ends, 
And here no longer can I rest ; 
Farewell ! — You will not speak, my 

friends. 
Unfriendly of your parted guest. 

O well for him that finds a friend. 
Or makes a friend where'er he come, 
And loves the world from end to end. 
And wanders on from home to home ! 

happy he, and fit to live. 

On whom a happy home has power 
To make him trust his life, and give 
His fealty to the halcyon hour ! 

1 count you kind, I hold you true ; 
Ijut what may follow who can tell ? 
Give me a hand — and you — and you — 
And deem me grateful, and farewell ! 



POETS AND CRITICS— THE SILENT VOICES 



893 



POETS AND CRITICS 

This thing, that thing is the rage, 
Helter-skelter runs the age ; 
Minds on this round earth of ours 
Vary like the leaves and flowers, 

Fashion'd after certain laws ; 
Sing thou low or loud or sweet, 
All at all points thou canst not meet, 

Some will pass and some will pause. 

What is true at last will tell : 
Few at first will place thee well ; 
Some too low would have thee shine. 
Some too high — no fault of thine — 

Hold thine own, and work thy will ! 
Year will graze the heel of year, 
But seldom comes the poet here, 

And the Critic's rarer still. 



A VOICE SPAKE OUT OF 
THE SKIES 

A Voice spake out of the skies 
To a just man and a wise — 
' The world and all within it 
Will only last a minute ! ' 
And a beggar began to cry 
' Food, food or I die ' ! 
Is it worth his while to eat, 
Or mine to give him meat, 
If the world and all within it 
Were nothing the next minute ? 



DOUBT AND PRAYER 

Tho' Sin too oft, when smitten by Thy 

rod, 
Rail at ' Blind Fate ' with many a vain 

' Alas ! ' 
From sin thro' sorrow into Thee we pass 
By that same path our true forefathers 

trod ; 
And let not Reason fail me, nor the sod 
Draw from my death Thy living flower 

and grass, 
Before I learn that Love, which is, and 

was 



My Father, and my Brother, and my 

God ! 
Steel me with patience ! soften me with 

grief ! 
Let blow the trumpet strongly while I 

pray, 
Till this embattled wall of unbelief 
My prison, not my fortress, fall away ! 
Then, if Thou wiliest, let my day be 

brief, 
So Thou wilt strike Thy glory thro' the 

day. 



FAITH 



Doubt no longer that the Highest is the 

wisest and the best, 
Let not all that saddens Nature blight 

thy hope or break thy rest, 
Quail not at the fiery mountain, at the 

shipwreck, or the rolling 
Thunder, or the rending earthquake, or 

the famine, or the pest ! 



Neither mourn if human creeds be lower 

than the heart's desire ! 
Thro' the gates that bar the distance 

comes a gleam of what is higher. 
Wait till Death has flung them open, 

when the man will make the Maker 
Dark no more with human hatreds in the 

glare of deathless fire ! 



THE SILENT VOICES 

When the dumb Hour, clothed in black, 
Brings the Dreams about my bed. 
Call me not so often back, 
Silent Voices of the dead, 
Toward the lowland ways behind me, 
And the sunlight that is gone ! 
Call me rather, silent voices. 
Forward to the starry track 
Glimmering up the heights beyond me. 
On, and always on ! 



894 



GOD AND THE* UNIVERSE— CROSSING THE BAR 



GOD AND THE UNIVERSE 



Will my tiny spark of being wholly 
vanish in your deeps and heights ? 

Must my day be dark by reason, O ye 
Heavens, of your boundless nights, 

Rush of Suns, and roll of systems, and 
your fiery clash of meteorites ? 



* Spirit, nearing yon dark portal at the 
limit of thy human state. 

Fear not thou the hidden purpose of that 
Power which alone is great, 

Nor the myriad world, His shadow, nor 
the silent Opener of the Gate.' 

THE DEATH OF THE DUKE 
OF CLARENCE AND AVON- 
DALE 

The bridal garland falls upon the bier. 
The shadow of a crown, that o'er him 
hung, 



Has vanished in the shadow cast by 

Death. 
So princel}-, tender, truthful, reverent, 

pure — 
Mourn ! That a world-wide Empire 

mourns with you. 
That all the Thrones are clouded by 

your loss. 
Were slender solace. Yet be comforted ; 
P^or if this earth be ruled by Perfect 

Love, 
Then, after his brief range of blameless 

days. 
The toll of funeral in an Angel ear 
Sounds happier than the merriest mar- 
riage-bell. 
The face of Death is toward the Sun 

of Life, 
His shadow darkens earth : his truer 

name 
Is ' Onward,' no discordance in the 

roll 
And march of that Eternal Harmony 
Whereto the worlds beat time, tho' faintly 

heard 
Until the great Hereafter. Mourn in 

hope ! 



CROSSING THE BAR 



Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 
Too full for sound and foam. 

When that which drew from out the 
boundless deep 
Turns again home. 



Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time 
and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 



NOTES 



AUTHOR'S PREFATORY 
NOTES 

PoETR Y is like shot silk with many glowing 
colours, and every reader must find his own 
interpretation according to his ability, and 
according to his syjnpathy with the poet. 



I am told that my young countrymen 
would like notes to my poems. Shall I write 
what dictionaries tell to save some of the 
idle folk trouble? or am I to try to fix a 
moral to each poem ? or to add an analysis 
of passages ? or to give a history of my 
similes ? I do not like the task. 



Knowledge, shone, kn5ll — let him who 
reads me always read the vowel in these 
words long. 

My paraphrases of certain Latin and 
Greek lines seem too obvious to be men- 
tioned. Many of the parallelisms here 
given are accidental. The same idea must 
often occur independently to two men 
looking on the same aspects of Nature. 
There is a wholesome page in Eckermann's 
"Conversations with Goethe," where one 
or the other (I have not the book by me) 
remarks that the prosaic mind finds plagiar- 
ism in passages that only prove ' ' the 
common brotherhood of man." — T. 



P. I. To THE Queen. [First pub- 
lished in 1851. — Ed.] 

P. I, lines 7, 8. 

This laurel greener from the brows 
Of him that utter d nothing base. 



[Wordsworth. On Nov. 19, 1850, my 
father was appointed Poet Laureate in 
succession to Wordsworth. See Memoir, 
vol. i. p. 334 foil., and " Reminiscences of 
Tennyson in Early Days," Memoir, vol. i. 
pp. 208-210. — Ed.] 

The third verse in proof stood — 

Nor should I dare to flatter state. 
Nor such a lay would you receive, 
Were I to shape it, who believe 

Your nature true as you are great. 

P. 2. (Juvenilia) Claribel. [First 
published in 1830. — Ed.] All these ladies 
were evolved, like the camel, from my 
own consciousness. [Isabel was more or 
less a portrait. See p. 896, note to p. 6, 
Isabel.— YAi.'\ 

"Juvenilia" were published in 1830. 
John Stuart Mill reviewed the volume in 
the London Review (July 1835) ; Leigh 
Hunt in the Taller ; and Professor Wilson 
(Christopher North) in Blackwood. 

P. 2, line 15. lintwhite, i.e. linnet. 

P. 2. Nothing will Die. [First 
published in 1830. — Ed.] All things are 
evolved. [Cf. the early poem :' 

01 p^ovres 

All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, 

All visions wild and strange ; 
Man is the measure of all truth 

Unto himself. All truth is change ; 
All men do walk in sleep, and all 

Have faith in that they dream : 
For all things are as they seem to all. 

And all things flow like a stream. 

There is no rest, no calm, no pause, 
Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, 



895 



896 



NOTES 



Nor essence nor eternal laws : 

For nothing is, but all is made. 
But if I dream that all these are, 

They are to me for that I dream : 
For all things are as they seem to all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 

Ed.] 

P. 3. All Things will Die. [First 
published in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 3, hne 35. 

Nine times goes the passing bell. 
Nine times for a man. 

P. 3. Leonine Elegiacs. [First pub- 
lishedin 1830. — Ed.] Line 10. ''hyaline.'" 
[Cf. u)s Q6Xa.(j(To. vaXLvT], ' ' a sea of glass 
like unto crystal" (Rev. iv. 6), and Par. 
Lost, vii. 619. — Ed. J 

P. 3, line 13. The ancle fit poetess 
singeth. 
F^crirepe, irdvTa 0^pets, 6<ja (paivoXts 

eaKidaa' aijus, 
(pepeLS 6'Cv, cpepei-s alya, (p^peis /nar^pL iraida,. 
Sappho. 

P. 3. Supposed Confessions of a 
Second-rate Sensitive Mind. [First 
published in 1830. — Ed.] If some kind 
friend had taken him by the hand and 
said, "Come, work" — "Look not every 
man on his own things, but every man 
also on the things of others" (Philippians 
ii. 4) — he might have been a happy man, 
though sensitive. 

P. 6. The Kraken. [First published 
in 1830. — Ed.] See the account which 
Erik Pontoppidan, the Norwegian bishop, 
born 1698, gives of the fabulous sea- 
monster — the kraken {Biographie Uni- 
verselle) : 

" Ce prodigieux polype dont le dos a 
une demilieue de circonf^rence ou plus . . . 
quelquefois ses bras s'^levent a la hauteur 
des mats d'un navire de moyenne grandeur 
. . . on croit que s'ils accrochaient le 
plus gros vaisseau de guerre, ils le feraient 
couler a fond . . . les iles flottantes ne 
sont que des krakens." 

P. 6. Lilian. [First published in 1830. 
—Ed.] 

P. 6. Isabel. [First published in 1830. 
In the poem of Isabel the poet's mother 
was more or less described. * ' A remark- 



able and saintly woman," "One of the 
most innocent and tender-hearted ladies 
I ever saw, " wrote Edward FitzGerald. She 
devoted herself entirely to her husband and 
her children. — Ed.] 

P. 7. Mariana. [First published in 
1830. — Ed.] The moated grange •wa.s no 
particular grange, but one which rose to 
the music of Shakespeare's words : "There, 
at the moated grange, resides this dejected 
Mariana" {Measure for Measure, Act ill. 
Sc. i.). 

P. 7, line 4. pear. Altered from 
"peach," because "peach" spoils the 
desolation of the picture. It is not a 
characteristic of the scenery I had in mind. 

P. 7, lines 26-29. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen s low 
Came to her. 

Compare Ballad of Clerk Saunders : 
" O Cocks are crowing of merry midnight, 

I wot the wild fowls are boding day. 

The psalms of heaven will sure be 
sung," etc. 

[Cf. 
At midnight the cock was crowing. 
The Ballad of Oi'iana, p. 17.^-ED.] 

P. 7, line 40. marish-mosses, the little 
marsh-moss lumps that float on the surface 
of water. 

P. 8. To . [First published in 

1830. — Ed.] The first lines were ad- 
dressed to Blakesley (afterwards Dean of 
Lincoln), but the poem wandered off to 
describe an imaginary man. 

[Of Blakesley my father said : ' ' He 
ought to be Lord Chancellor, for he is a 
subtle and powerful reasoner, and an 
honest man." — Ed.] 

P. 8, line 6. Ray-fri?iged eyelids. Cf. 
' ' Under the opening eyehds of the morn. " 
Lycidas. 

P. 8, line 27. Yabbok. Jabbok not 
so sweet as Yabbok. Cf. Gen. xxxii. 22- 
32. The Hebrew J is Y. 

P. 8, line 28. 

And heaven's mazed signs stood still. 

The stars stood still in their courses to 
watch. 



NOTES 



897 



P. 8. [Madeline. First published in 
1830.— Ed.] 

P. 9. First Song to the Owl. [The 
songs were first pubHshed in 1830. — Ed.] 
Verse ii. line 6. his Jive wits, the five 
senses. Cf. " Bless thy five wits ! Tom's 
a-cold, — O, do de, do de, do de " {Ki?ig 
Lear, in. iv. 59). 

P. 9. Recollections OF THE Arabian 
Nights. [First published in 1830. — 
Ed.] Haroun Alraschid lived at the time 
of Charlemagne, and was renowned for 
his splendour and his patronage of literary 
men. I had only the translation — from 
the French of Galland — of the Arabian 
Nights when this was written, so I talked 
of sofas, etc. Lane was yet unborn. 

P. 10, col. I, lines 7, 8. 

The low and bloo7ned foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps. 
Not " drove over," as one commentator 
takes it, but the passage means that the 
deeps were driven before the prow. 

P. 10, col. I, line 17. platans, plane 
trees. Cf. 

The thick-leaved platans of the vale. 
The Princess, iii. 159. 
P. 10, col. I, line 41. rivage, bank. 

P. 10, col. 2, line 16. coverture. Cf. 
' ' the woodbine coverture " [Much Ado 
about Nothing, ill. i. 30). 

P. 10, col. 2, line 18. bulbul, the 
Persian name for Nightingale. Cf. 

" Not for thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil. " 

The Princess, iv. 104. 

P. 10, col. 2, line 32. counterchanged, 
chequered. Cf. 

Witch-elms that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright. 
In Memoriam, LXXXix. 

P. II, col. I, line 26. silvers, silver 
candelabra. 

P. II, col. I, line 28. mooned, crowned 
with the Mohammedan crescent moon. 
The crescent is Ottoman, not Arabian, an 
anachronism pardonable in a boy's vision. 

P. II, col. I, line 35. Persian girl. 



The Persian girl " Noureddin, the fair 
Persian," in The Arabian Nights' Enter- 
iainments. 

P. II. Ode to Memory. [First pub- 
lished in 1830. My father considered this 
one of the best of his early and peculiarly 
concentrated Nature-poems. — Ed. ] 

The Ode to Memory is a very early 
poem ; all except the lines beginning 
"My friend, with you to live alone," 
which were addressed to Arthur Hallam 
and added. 

P. II, line 9. yesternight, the past. 

P. 12, col. I, lines 29-35. 
Of purple cliffs , aloof descried ; 
Come from the woods that belt the gray 

hill-side. 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That statid beside my father's door. 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl der matted cress and ribbed sand. 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. 

The rectory at Somersby. The poplars 
have gone. 

[The lawn at Somersby was over- 
shadowed on one side by the wych-elms, 
and on the other by larch and sycamore 
trees. Here the poet made his early song, 
"A spirit haunts the year's last hours." 
Beyond the path, bounding the greensward 
to the south, ran in the old days a deep 
border of lilies and roses, backed by holly- 
hocks and sunflowers. Beyond that was 

a garden bower 'd close 
With plaited alleys of the trailing rose. 
Long alleys falling down to twilight grots. 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender — 

sloping in a gradual descent to the parson's 
field, at the foot of which flows, by " lawn 
and lea," the swift steep-banked brook, 
where are " brambly wildernesses" and 
"sweet forget-me-nots," and under the 
water the "long mosses sway." The 
charm and beauty of this brook haunted 
him through life. — Ed.] 

P. 12, col. 2, line 3. wolds. Somersby 
is on the wolds or hills, about seven miles 
from the fens. 

[Edward FitzGerald writes: "Long 

3 M 



NOTES 



after A. T. had settled in the Isle of 
Wight, I used to say he never should 
have left old Lincolnshire, where there 
were not only such grand seas, but also 
such fine Hill and Dale among The Wolds, 
which he was brought up on, as people in 
general scarce thought of." — Ed.] 

P. 12, col. 2, line 32. Pike. Cumber- 
land word for Peak. 

P. 12, col. 2, lines 33-35 refer to Mable- 
thorpe. 

I used to stand [when a boy] on the 
sand - built ridge at Mablethorpe and 
think that it was the spine-bone of the 
world. The seas there are interminable 
waves rolling along interminable shores of 
sand. 

P. 13. Song. [Written at Somersby ; 
first published in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 13, hne 12. 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

On a sloping bed the tiger-lilies drooped 
on a dank, damp day. 

[In 1828 my father had written the 
following (hitherto unpublished) poem 
about his home : 

HOME 

What shall sever me 

From the love of home ? 

Shall the weary sea. 

Leagues of sounding foam ? 

Shall extreme distress, 

Shall unknown disgrace, 

Make my love the less 

For my sweet birth-place? 

Tho' my brains grow dry, 

Fancy mew her wings, 

And my memory 

Forget all other things, — 

Tho' I could not tell 

My left hand from my right, — 

I should know thee well, 

Home of my delight ! Ed.] 

P. 13. A Character. [First published 
in 1830. This man was "a very plaus- 
ible, parliament - like, and self-satisfied 
speaker at the Union Debating Society." — 
Edward FitzGerald. 

The following character-poem was also 
written at Cambridge : 



TO 

Thou may'st remember what I said 
When thine own spirit was at strife 
With thine own spirit. ' ' From the tomb 
And char nel- place of purpose dead, 
Thro' spiritual dark we come 
Into the light of spiritual life." 

God walk'd the waters of thy soul, 

And still'd them. When from change to 

change, 
Led silently by power divine, 
Thy thought did scale a purer range 
Of prospect up to self-control, 
My joy was only less than thine. 

Ed.] 

P. 13. The Poet. [First published in 
1830.— Ed.] 

P. 13, line 3. 
Dower' d with the hate of hate, the scorn of 

scorn. 
The poet hates hate ; and scorns scorn. 

[My father denounced hate and scorn as 
if they were ' ' the sins against the Holy 
Ghost."— Ed.] 

P. 14, col. I, line 11, Calpe. Gibraltar 
(one of the pillars of Hercules) was the 
western limit of the old world, as Caucasus 
was the eastern. 

P. 14, col. I, line 15. the arrow -seeds 
of the field-flower, the dandelion. 

P. 14. The Poet's Mind. [First pub- 
lished in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 15. The Sea-Fairies. [First pub- 
lished in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 15. The Deserted House = the 
body which Life and Thought have left. 
[First published in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 16. The Dying Swan. [First pub- 
lished in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 16, col. 2, line i. 
Chasing itself at its own wild will. 
The circling of the swallow. 

P. 16, col. 2, line 10. the coronach, the 
Gaelic funeral song. 

P. 16, col. 2, line 22. soughing. Anglo- 
Saxon sweg, a sound. Modified into an 
onomatopoeic word for the soft sound or 
the deep sighing of the wind. 



NOTES 



899 



P. 16. A Dirge. [First published in 
1830.— Ed.] 

P. 17, col. I, line i. carketh, vexeth. 
[From late Latin carcare, to load, whence 
to charge. — Ed. ] 

P. 17, col. I, line 16. eglatere, for 
eglantine. Cf. 

" With sicamour was set and eglatere." 
The Floure and the Leafe. 

P. 17, col. I, line 22. pleached, plaited 
{plico). [Cf. Mtich Ado about Nothing, 
III. i. 7 : 

' ' the pleached bower, 
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, 
Forbid the sun to enter." Ed.] 

P. 17, col. I, line 24. long purples ( Vicia 
Cracca), the purple vetch. Nothing to 
do with " long purples" {Hamlet, iv. vii. 
170). 

P. 17, col. 2, line i. balm-cricket, cicala. 
There is an old school-book used by me 
when a boy {A?ialecta Grceca Major a et 
Minora). In the notes there to a poem 
of Theocritus I found tcttl^ translated 
"balm-cricket." "Balm" was evidently 
a corruption of Bautn, tree [Batim -grille). 

[A confusion was evidently made be- 
tween the German Baiim and the French 
bauvie, — Ed.] 

P. 17. Love and Death. [First pub- 
lished in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 17, line 4. cassia (Gk. Kaaia, a spice 
like cinnamon), a kind of laurel. 

P. 17, line 8. shee7iyvans, shining wings. 
Cf. Milton, Fai-adise Lost, ii. 927 : 

" At last his sail-broad vans 
He spreads for flight." 

P. 17, line 13. eraine?it, standing out 
like a tree. 

P. 17. The Ballad of Oriana. 
[First published in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 18, col. I, line 6. 

In the yew-wood black as night. 

Lear made a fine sketch of this at 
Kingley Bottom, near Chichester, which is 
a striking vale with a yew grove in it. 
When we saw the yews their blackness 
was crowned with the wild white clematis. 



P. 18. Circumstance. [First pub- 
lished in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 19. The Merman. [First published 
in 1830. — Ed.] 

P. 19, col. 2, line 10. Turkis. Milton 
calls it "turkis," for turquoise is the 
French word with an ugly nasal sound in 
the oi diphthong. 

P. 19, col. 2, line 10. ahnondine, a small 
violet garnet, first brought from Alabanda, 
acity of Asia Minor. Hence " almondine" 
is a corruption of the Latin adjective Ala- 
bandina, 

P. 19. The Mermaid. [First published 
in 1830. — Ed.] 

' ' No more misshapen from the waist, 
But like a maid of mortal frame." 
W. Scott. 

P. 20, col. 2, line i. hollow sphei-e of 
the sea, an underworld of which the sea is 
the heaven. 

P. 20. Adeline. [First published in 
1830. — Ed.] 

P. 21, col. I, line 16. Sabcsan, 
Arabian. 

P. 21, col. I, Hne 25. Letters cowslips. 
Referring to the red spots on the cowslip 
bell, as if they were letters of a fairy 
alphabet. Cf. Cymbeline, 11. ii. 39 : 
" like the crimson drops 
r the bottom of a cowslip." 

P. 21. Margaret. [First published 
in 1832. All the poems dated 1833 were 
published at the end of 1832. — Ed.] 

P. 22, col. I, line 6, leavy. Cf. 
" Since summer first was leavy." 

Mtich Ado, II. iii. 75. 
\Macbeth, v. vi. i ; Pericles, v. i. 51. 
Later editions read " leafy." — Ed.] 

P. 22. Rosalind. [First pubhshed in 
1832.— Ed.] 

P. 22. EleXnore. [First published in 
1832. — Ed.] 

P. 24. Verse viii. Cf. Sappho : 

(paiveTai /xoi ktjvos tcros deoicTLv 

^fXfxev &vr)p, octtls ivavTios tol 

i^aveL, Kai ir\acrlov d8u (pujuev- 

aas VTaKoveL 



900 



NOTES 



KoX yeXalaas l/xepSep, t6 jxol /xav 
Kapdiav iv crT'/jOecnv iiTTbaaeV 
u?s yap eh a tdco (ipaxeojs fie <pui>a$ 
ovdev eV etKec 

d\X(i KafJ. ixkv ykCjcraa ^aye Xeirrov 8' 
avriKa xpw irvp virobebpofiaKev, 
oTnrdTeacn 5' ov8ei' 6pr)fx, eTrtppSfji,- 
jSeicrt 5' &Kovai. 

a 5e fi" tdpojs Aca/cx^erat, rpofios 8e 
iracrau aypei' x^wpoT^pa 8e iroias 
'ifilXL' TedvaKrjv 5' dXiyio 'iride&rjS 
(f)OLlvojj,ai dXXa. 

dXXd Trdv rbXixarov, [iirel koL irivrp-a]. 

P. 24. My life is full of weary 
DAYS, and the next poem beginning 
"When in the darkness over me," were 
originally two poems, tho' one in the 
edition, dated 1833, published in 1832. 

P. 25. When in the darkness over 

ME. 

p. 25, line 10. scritches. Originally 
" laughters." I was one day walking with 
a friend in a copse, and I heard bird- 
laughter. I have no eyes, so to speak. 
He said, "That's a jay." It may have 
been a woodpecker as far as my ears could 
tell. However, whether he was right in 
his eyesight or I in my hearing, I did once 
catch a jay in the act of laughing. I once 
crept with the greatest caution thro' a 
wood and came right underneath a jay. 
I heard him chuckling to himself ; and the 
afternoon sun was full upon him ; I broke 
by chance a little rotten twig of the tree he 
was perched on, and away he went. 

P. 25. Sonnet I. To . [First pub- 
lished in 1832. — Ed.] 

P. 25. Sonnet H. To J. M. K. To 
my old college friend, J, M. Kemble. 
[First published in 1830. He gave up 
his thought of taking Orders, and devoted 
himself to Anglo-Saxon history and litera- 
ture, — Ed.] 

P. 26. Sonnet IV. Alexander. [First 
published in 1872, although written much 
earlier. — Ed.] 

P. 26, line 8. Am7nonian Oasis. This 
refers to Alexander's visit to the famous 
temple of Zeus Ammon in" the Libyan 
desert. 



P. 26. Sonnet V. Buonaparte. [First 
published in 1832. — Ed.] 

P. 26. Sonnet VI. Poland. [First pub- 
lished in 1832. — Ed.] 

Pp. 26, 27. Sonnets VII. VIII. IX. 
[First published in 1865, although written 
in early life. — Ed. ] 

P. 27. Sonnet X. [First published in 
1832. — Ed.] 

P. 27. Sonnet XI. The Bridesmaid. 
[First published in 1872. On May 24, 
1836, my father's best - loved brother, 
Charles Tennyson Turner, married Louisa 
Sellwood, my mother's youngest sister. 
My mother as a bridesmaid was taken into 
church by my father. They had rarely 
been in each other's company since their 
first meeting in 1830, when the Sellwoods 
had driven over one spring day from Horn- 
castle to call at Somersby Rectory. 

Two other early sonnets are worthy of 
insertion here : 

LOVE 



Thou, from the first, unborn, undying Love, 
Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near, 
Before the face of God didst breathe and 

move, 
Though night and pain and ruin and death 

reign here. 
Thou foldest like a golden atmosphere, 
The very throne of the eternal God ; 
Passing thro' thee, the edicts of His fear 
Are mellow'd into music, borne abroad 
By the loud winds, though they uprend 

the sea. 
Even from his centred deeps ; thine empery 
Is over all ; thou wilt not brook eclipse ; 
Thou goest and returnest to His Lips 
Like lightening ; thou dost ever brood 

above 
The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love. 



To know thee is all wisdom, and old age 
Is but to know thee ; dimly we behold thee 
Athwart the veils of evil which enfold thee. 
We beat upon our aching hearts with rage ; 
We cry for thee ; we deem the world thy 

tomb. 
As dwellers in lone planets look upon 



NOTES 



901 



The mighty disk of their majestic sun, 
Hallow'd inawful chasmsof wheelinggloom, 
Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee. 
Come, thou of many crowns, white-robed 

Love, 
O rend the veil in twain ! all men adore thee ; 
Heaven crieth after thee ; earth waileth 

for thee ; 
Breathe on thy winged throne, and it shall 

move 
In music and in light o'er land and sea. 

Ed.] 

P. 28. The Lady of Shalott, [First 
published in 1832, and much altered in 
1842. — Ed.] Taken from an Italian 
novelette, Do?ma di Scalotta. Shalott and 
Astolat are the same words. The Lady of 
Shalott is evidently the Elaine of the Morte 
d' Arthur, but I do not think that I had 
ever heard of the latter when I wrote the 
former. Shalott was a softer sound than 
"Scalott." Stalott would have been 
nearer Astolat. 

P. 28, col. I, line 5. Camelot (unlike 
the Camelot of the Celtic legends) is on the 
sea in the Italian story. 

[The key to this tale of magic symbolism 
is of deep human significance and is to be 
found in the lines : 

Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half sick of shadows," said 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Ed.] 

P. 28, col. I, line 30. cheerly. Cf. 
" cheerly drawing breath" {Rich. II. i. 
iii. 66). 

P. 29, col. 2, line 24. 

Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
George Ehot liked my first the best : 
Till her smooth face sharpen 'd slowly. 

P. 30. Mariana i.n the South. [First 
published in 1832. — Ed.] The idea of 
this came into my head between Narbonne 
and Perpignan. 

[" It is intended, you will perceive, as a 
kind of pendant to his former poem of 
Mariana, the idea of both being the 
expression of desolate loneliness, but 
with this distinctive variety in the second, 
that it paints the forlorn feeling as it 



would exist under the influence of different 
impressions of sense. When we were 
journeying together this summer through 
the South of France we came upon a range 
of country just corresponding to his pre- 
conceived thought of a barrenness, . . . 
and the portraiture of the scenery in this 
poem is most faithful. You will, I think, 
agree with me that the essential and dis- 
tinguishing character of the conception 
requires in the Southern Mariana a greater 
lingering on the outward circumstances, 
and a less palpable transition of the poet 
into Mariana's feelings, than was the case 
in the former poem " (A, H. Hallam to 
W. B. Donne).— Ed.] 

P. 30, col. 2, line 42. 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 
Originally in MS. 

At fall of eve a cricket sung. 

P. 31. The Two Voices. 

\^The Two Voices, or Thoughts of a 
Suicide (first published in 1844, but dated 
1833), describing the conflict in a soul 
between Faith and Scepticism, was begun 
after the death of Arthur Hallam, which, 
as my father told me, for a while blotted 
out all joy from his life, and made him 
long for death. 

In the earliest manuscript of The Two 
Voices a fine verse which was omitted in 
the published edition is found after ' ' under 
earth " (p. 35, col. i, line 9) : 

From when his baby pulses beat 
To when his hands in their last heat 
Pick at the death-mote on the sheet. 
Ed.] 

P. 31, col. 2, line 9. for thy deficiency, 
for the want of thee. 

P. 33, col. I, line 36. 

Look up, the fold is on her brow. 
The fold = the cloud. 

P. 33, col. r, line 37. oblique. Our 
grandfathers said " obleege," which is now 
oblige ; in the same way I pronounce 
' ' oblique " oblique. 

P. 33, col. I, line 39. Embracing cloud. 
Ixion embraced a cloud, hoping to embrace 
a goddess. 



902 



NOTES 



P. 33, col. 2, line 30. 
The elemejits were kindlier mix'd. 
Some have happier dispositions. 

P. 34, col. I, line 37. 
The simple senses crown d his head. 
The simple senses made death a king. 

P. 35, col. I, Hnes i, 2. 

Before the little ducts began 
To feed thy bones with li7ne. 

[Cf. Animal Physiology, by W. B. Car- 
penter : "In the first development of the 
embryo, a sort of mould of cartilage is laid 
down for the greater part of the bones. 
. . . The process of ossification, or bone- 
formation, commences with the deposit of 
calcareous matter in the intercellular sub- 
stance of the cartilage, so as to form a sort 
of network, in the interspaces of which are 
seen the remains of the cartilage- cells. 
The tissue thus formed can scarcely be 
considered as true bone, for it contains 
neither lacuncB nor canaliculi. Before 
long, however, it undergoes very important 
changes ; for many of the partitions are 
removed, so that the minute chambers 
which they separated coalesce into larger 
ones ; and thus are formed the caficelli of 
the spongy substance, and the Haversian 
canals of the more compact." — Ed.] 

P. 36, col. 2, line 12, 
You scarce coiild see the grass for flowefs. 

[Edward FitzGerald says : ' ' Composed 
as he walked about the Dulwich meadows." 
—Ed.] 

P. 36. The Miller's Daughter. 
[First published in 1832 ; much altered in 
1842. — Ed.] No particular mill, but if 
I thought at all of any mill it was that of 
Trumpington, near Cambridge. 

[FitzGerald notes : ' ' This Poem, as 
may be seen, is much altered and enlarged 
from the ist Ed. (dated) 1833 ; in some 
respects, I think, not for the better ; losing 
somewhat of the easy character of ' Talk 
over the Walnuts and the Wine.' Any- 
how, would one not preserve the first 
stanza of the original, slightly altered, as 
A. T. suggested to me? 

I met in all the close green ways. 
While walking with my rod and Hne, 



The Miller with his mealy face. 

And long'd to take his hand in mine. 
He look'd so jolly and so good, 

When fishing in the milldam-water, 
I laugh'd to see him as he stood, 

And dreamt not of the miller's daughter.' 
Ed.] 

P. 37, col. I, lines 40, 41. 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue. 

First reading : 

Beneath those gummy chestnut buds 
That glistened in the April blue. 

P. 38. Verse omitted after col. 1, line 4. 
That slope beneath the chestnut tall 

Is woo'd with choicest breaths of air ; 
Methinks that I could tell you all 

The cowslips and the kingcups there, 
Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent 

Whose round leaves hold the gather'd 
shower, 
Each quaintly-folded cuckoo-pint 

And silver-paly cuckoo flower. 

[Cuckoo-pint, or Lords and Ladies, 
Arum maculatum. Cuckoo-flower, Car- 
damine pratensis. — Ed. ] 

P. 38, col. I, line 29, to col. 2, line 8. 
[Spedding writes in the Edinburgh for 
April 1843 : " ' The Miller's Daughter' is 
much enriched by the introduction of the 
mother of the lover ; and the following 
beautiful stanzas (which many people, how- 
ever, will be ill satisfied to miss) are dis- 
placed to make room for beauty of a much 
higher order : 

Remember you the clear moonlight 

That whiten'd all the eastern ridge. 
When o'er the water dancing white 

I stepp'd upon the old mill bridge? 
I heard you whisper from above, 

A lute-toned whisper, ' I am here ! ' 
I murmur'd ' Speak again, my love. 

The stream is loud : I cannot hear ! ' 

I heard, as I have seem'd to hear. 

When all the under-air was still. 
The low voice of the glad New Year 

Call to the freshly-flower'd hill. 
I heard, as I have often heard, 

The nightingale in leavy woods 
Call to its mate when nothing stirr'd 

To left or right but falling floods. 



NOTES 



903 



" These, we observe, are away ; and the 
following graceful and tender picture, full 
of the spirit of English rural life, appears 
in their place. (The late squire's son, we 
should presume, is bent on marrying the 
daughter of the wealthy miller) : 

And slowly was my mother brought 

Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 
Ed.] 

P. 39. Fatima. [Published in 1832, 
to which this quotation from Sappho was 
prefixed : 

(palveral /jlol Krjvoi laos deotav 
^fifiev (bvrjp. Ed.] 

P. 40. CEnone. Married to Paris, and 
afterwards deserted by him for Helen. 
The sequel of the tale is poorly given in 
Quintus Calaber. 

[See The Death of CEfione, p. 876. 
My father visited the Pyrenees with 
Arthur Hallam in 1830. From this time 
forward the lonely Pyrenean peaks, the 
mountains with ' ' their streaks of virgin 
snow," like the Maladetta, mountain 
' ' lawns and meadow - ledges midway 
down," and the " long brook falling thro' 
the clov'n ravine," were a continual source 
of inspiration. He wrote part of CEnone 
in the valley of Cauteretz. His sojourn 
there was also commemorated one-and- 
thirty years afterward in ' ' All along the 
valley." CEtione was first published in 
1832, but was republished in 1842 with 
considerable alterations. — Ed.] 

I had an idiotic hatred of hyphens in 
those days, but though I printed such 
words as "gl^nrfver," " t^ndriltwfne " I 
always gave them in reading their fyll two 
accents. Coleridge thought because of 
these hyphened words that I could not 
scan. He said that I ought to write in a 
regular metre in order that I might learn 
what metre was — not knowing that in 
earliest youth I had written hundreds of 
lines in the regular Popian measure. I 
remember my father (who was hin\self 
something of a poet and wrote very regular 
metre) saying to me when in my early 
teens, "Don't write always such exact 
metre — break it now and then to avoid 
monotony." I now think that we want 
two forms of hyphen, e.g. "Paper hang- 



ing Manufacturer" is a "Manufacturer 
made of paper and hung in effigy. ' ' Paper- 
hanging = Manufacturer. ' ' Invalid Chair- 
maker " is a sick maker of chairs. Invalid- 
chair = maker. 

P. 40, col. I, line i. Ida. On the 
south of Troas. 

P. 40, col. I, line 10. Gargaraox Gar- 
garoTi. The highest part of Mt. Ida. 
Ipsa suas mirantur Gargara messes. 
Georg. i. 103. 

P. 40, col. I, line 16. Paris, once her 
playmate on the hills. [See ApoUodorus, 
iii. 12, etc. — Ed.] 

P. 40, col. I, lines 22, 23. This sort of 
refrain : 

O mother Ida, 7tia7iy -fountain d Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die 
is found in Theocritus. For ' ' many-foun- 
tain'd " cf. //. viii. 47 : 
"I5?7i' 5' t/caj/e iroXviridaKa, firjr^pa d'qpdv 
and elsewhere in the Iliad. 

P. 40, col. I, line 24, 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill. 
fieaafij^pLVT] 5' elx ^pos rjavxia. 
Callimachus, Lavacrum Palladis, 72. 

P. 40, col. I, line 27. and the witids 
are dead. Altered from the original read- 
ing of 1842, " and the cicala sleeps." In 
these Unes describing a perfect stillness, I 
did not like the jump, ' ' Rests like a shadow 
—and the cicala sleeps." Moreover, in 
the heat of noon the cicala is generally at 
its loudest, though I have read that, in 
extreme heat, it is silent. Some one (I 
forget who) found them silent at noon on 
the slopes of Etna. 

In the Pyrenees, where part of this poem 
was written, I saw a very beautiful species 
of cicala, which had scarlet wings spotted 
with black. Probably nothing of the kind 
exists in Mount Ida. 

P. 40, col. I, line 28. flower droops. 
"Flowers droop" in the original edition 
of 1842 was a misprint for ' ' flower droops, " 

P. 40, col. 2, line 2. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love. 
This line, that any child might have 



904 



NOTES 



written, is not, as some writers say, taken 
from Shakespeare : 

" Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of 
g"^f-" 2 Henry VI. ii. iii. 17. 

P. 40, col. 2, line 12. 

Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed. 
[Cf. Tithonus, p. 97, col. 2, lines 15, 16 : 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers ; 

and Ovid, Het'oides, xvi. 179 : 
Ilion adspicies, firmataque turribus altis 
Moenia, Phoebeae structa canore lyrae. 

Ed.] 

P. 40, col. 2, line 32. foam-bow. The 
rainbow in the cataract, formed by the 
sunshine on the foam. 

P. 41, col. I, line i. Hesperian gold, 
from the gardens of the Hesperides. 

P. 41, col. I, line 10. jnarried brows, 
meeting eye-brows, avvocppvs Kdpa, Theoc. 
viii. 72. [Cf. Ovid, Artis Amatoriae, iii. 
201, " confinia supercilii." — Ed.] 

P. 41, col. 1, line 30. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire. 

[Cf. %/)i;crai;7'J?s Kp6i<os, Oed. Coloneus, 685. 
—Ed.] 

It is the flame-like petal of the crocus 
which is alluded to, not only the colour. 
I will answer for it that no modern poet 
can write a single line but among the in- 
numerable authors of the world you will 
somewhere find a striking parallelism. It 
is the unimaginative man who thinks every- 
thing borrowed. 

P. 41, col. I, line 31. amaraciis, mar- 
joram. 

P. 41, col. 1, line 31. asphodel, a sort 
of lily. The word "daffodil" is said to 
be derived from "asphodel." [Fleur 
d'asphodHe. — Ed. ] 

P. 41, col. 2, line 5. peacock, sacred to 
Here. 

P. 41, col. 2, line 32. 

Rest 771 a happy place and qiciet seats. 
Scilicet is Superis labor est, ea cura quietos 
Sollicitat. Aeneid, iv. 379-380. 



^^" . . . sedesque quietae 

Quas neque concutiunt venti. 
Lucretius, De Rertan Nat. iii. 18. 

P. 42, col. I, line 6. G ei'thwarted. 
Founded on the Chaucerian word ' ' over- 
thwart," across. Cf. Troilus and Criseyde , 
Bk. hi. 685. 

P. 42. col. I, line 20. Sequel of guerdon, 
addition of reward. 

P. 42, col. I, line 31. [The Goddess 
pictures the full-grown, full-orbed Will like 
a young planet pursuing its mighty path in 
a series of revolutions, each revolution 
more and more symmetrical, and devoid of 
halting epicycles ; until its course is fric- 
tionless, — pure unhesitating Will, — fulfil- 
ling without let or hindrance the law of its 
being in absolute freedom. My father 
often repeated his lines on Free Will : 

This main-miracle, that thou art thou, 
With power on thine own act and on the 
world ; 

and would enlarge upon man's consequent 
moral obligations, upon the law which 
claims a free obedience, and upon the 
pursuit of moral perfection (in imitation of 
the Divine) to which man is called, — Ed.] 

P. 42, col. 2, line 8. Paphian. Idalium 
and Paphos in Cyprus are sacred to 
Aphrodite. 

P. 43, col. I, line 23. The Abominable, 
Eris the goddess of strife, discord. 

P. 43, col. 2, line 31. 

Afire dances before her, and a sound. 

Cf. 

iraTToi, dlov to irvp • iir^px^Tai. de /xoi. 

Aesch. Ag. 1256. 

P. 44. The Sisters. [First pubhshed 
in 1832. — Ed.] Mrs. Tom Taylor has 
made a fine setting for this. 

P. 44. The Palace of Art. [First 
published in edition dated 1833 ; but 
really 1832. — Ed.] Trench (afterwards 
Archbishop of Dublin) said, when we were 
at Trinity (Cambridge) together, " Tenny- 
son, we cannot live in Art." 
Beauty, Good and Knowledge are three 

sisters . . . 
That never can be sunder'd without tears. 



NOTES 



905 



And he that shuts out Love, in turn shall be 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold 

lie, 
Howling in outer darkness. 

[Spedding writes that the poem ' ' repre- 
sents allegorically the condition of a mind 
which, in the love of beauty, and the 
triumphant consciousness of knowledge, 
and intellectual supremacy, in the intense 
enjoyment of its own power and glory,' has 
lost sight of its relation to man and God." 
—Ed.] 

When I first conceived the plan of The 
Palace of Art, I intended to have intro- 
duced both sculptures and paintings into 
it, but I only finished two sculptures. 

One was the Tishbite whom the raven fed. 

As when he stood on Carmel-steeps, 
With one arm stretch'd out bare, and 
mock'd and said, 
" Come, cry aloud — he sleeps." 

Tall, eager, lean and strong, his cloak 
wind-borne 
Behind, his forehead heavenly bright 
From the clear marble pouring glorious 
scorn, 
Lit as with inner light. 
Olynipias was the mother of Alexander 
the Great, and devoted to the Orphic rites. 
She was wont in the dances proper to 
these ceremonies to have great tame 
serpents about her. 

One was Olympias : the floating snake 

Roll'd round her ankles, round her waist 
Knotted, and folded once about her neck. 
Her perfect lips to taste, 

1 Down from the shoulder moved ; she 
seeming blithe 
Declined her head : on every side 
The dragon's curves melted, and mingled 
with 
The woman's youthful pride 
Of rounded limbs. 

P. 44, col. 2, line 16. \_Sleeps. The 
shadow of Saturn thrown on the luminous 
ring, though the planet revolves in ten and 
a half hours, appears to be motionless. — 
Ed.] 

P. 45, col. I, line 14. That lent 07-oad 
vei-ge, a broad horizon. 

1 MS. reading. 



P. 45, col. 2, line 28. hoary. The 
underside of the olive leaf is white. 

P. 46, col. I, line 11. branch-work of 
costly sardonyx. The Parisian jewellers 
apply graduated degrees of heat to the 
sardonyx, by which the original colour is 
changed to various colours. They imitate 
thus, among other things, bunches of 
grapes with green tendrils. 

P. 46, col. I, line 12. 

Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

[Edward FitzGerald wrote a note for me 
on this : ' ' After visiting Italy some twenty 
years after this poem was written, he told 
me that he had been prepared for Raffaelle, 
but not for Michael Angelo ; whose picture 
at Florence of a Madonna dragging a 
' ton of a child ' over one shoulder almost 
revolted him at first, but drew him toward 
itself afterward, and ' would not out of 
memory.' I forget if he saw the Dresden 
Raffaelle, but he would speak of the Child 
in it as ' perhaps finer than the whole 
composition, in so far as one's eyes are 
more concentrated on the subject. The 
child seems to be the furthest reach of 
human art. His attitude is a man's ; his 
countenance a Jupiter's, perhaps too much 
so.' But when A. T. had a babe of his 
own, he saw it was not ' too much so.* 'I 
am afraid of him : babies have a grandeur 
which children lose, their look of awe and 
wonder. I used to think the old painters 
overdid the expression and dignity of their 
infant Christs, but I see they didn't. ' " — 
Ed.] 

P. 46, col. I, line 21. 
Or mythic Other's deeply-wounded son. 
Arthur when he was ' ' smitten thro' the 
helm " by Modred. 

Here this verse was omitted : 
Or blue-eyed Kriemhilt from a craggy hold 

Athwart the light-green rows of vine, 
Pour'd blazing hoards of Nibelungen gold 
Down to the gulfy Rhine. 

P. 46, col. I, line 27. 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king 
to hear. 

Egeria, who gave the laws to Numa 
Pompilius. 



9o6 



NOTES 



P. 46, col. I, line 29. engrail' d 
[heraldic term for serrated. — Ed.]. 

P. 46, col. I, line 31. Indian Cama, 
the Hindu God of young love, son of 
Brahma. 

P. 46, col. I, line 33. blew. "Blue," 
as it appears in some editions, was a 
printer's error. [Cf. Moschus, Id. ii. 
121-5.— Ed.] 

P. 46, col. 2, line 6. the supreme 
Caucasia?i miiid. [The Caucasian range 
was thought to form the N.W. border of 
Western Asia, from which the races who 
peopled Europe originally came. — Ed.] 

P. 46, col. 2, line 17. Ionian father, 
Homer. 

P. 47, col. I, line 7. large -brow' d 
Verulam. The bust of Bacon in Trinity 
College Library. " Livy " is in one of 
the original verses here, and looks queer. 
Our classical tutor at Trinity College used 
to call him such a great poet that I 
suppose he got into my palace thro' his 
recommendation. 

[FitzGerald wrote : "In this advance- 
ment of Livy I recognize the fashion of 
A. T.'s college days, when the German 
school, with Coleridge, Julius Hare, etc., 
to expound, came to reform all our 
Notions. I remember that Livy and 
Jeremy Taylor were ' the greatest poets 
next to Shakespeare. ' " 

The "original verses" referred to ran 
thus : 
Cervantes ; the bright face of Calderon ; 

Robed David, touching holy strings ; 
The Halicarnassean ; and alone, 
Alfred, the flower of kings. 

Isaiah with fierce Ezekiel, 

Swarth Moses by the Coptic sea, 
Plato, Petrarca, Livy, and Raphael, 

And eastern Confutzee. 
And many more that in their life-time were 
Full-welling fountain-heads of change, 
etc. Ed.] 

P. 47, col. I, line 8. 

The first of those who know 
is Bacon. 

" II maestro di color chi sanno," 
as Dante says of Aristotle in Inferno^ iii. 



In the first edition, in the centre of the 
four quadrangles was a huge tower. 

Hither, when all the deep unsounded skies 
Shudder'd with silent stars, she clomb. 

And as with optic glasses her keen eyes 

Pierced thro' the mystic dome, 5 

Regions of lucid matter taking forms, ' 

Brushes of fire, hazy gleams. 
Clusters and beds of worlds, and bee-like 
swarms 
Of suns, and starry streams. 

Shesaw thesnowy poles and moons of Mars, 

That mystic field of drifted light 
In mid Orion and the married stars. ^ 

''Moons of Mars" is the only modern 
reading here. All the rest are more than 
half a century old. 

P. 47, col. I, line 15. as morn from 
Metnnon. [The statue of Memnon near 
Thebes was said to give forth music when 
the rays of the rising sun struck it. — Ed.] 

P. 47, col. I, line 30. afiadems, crowns. 
[Cf. Shelley's Adonais, XI. : 

' ' and threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls 
begem." Ed.] 

P. 47, col. I, line 32. hollow' d moons 
of gems [gems hollowed out for lamps. — 
Ed.]. 

P. 47. After line 8 in col. 2 used to 
come these verses : 

' ' From shape to shape at first within the 
womb 
The brain is moulded," she began, 
' ' And thro' all phases of all thought I come 
Unto the perfect man. 

All nature widens upward. Evermore 

The simpler essence lower lies. 
More complex is more perfect, owning more 
Discourse, more widely wise." 

P. 47, col. 2, line 35. 

The abysmal deeps of Persofiality. 

Arthur Hallam once pointed out to me, 
or I to him, a quotation in some review 
from J. P. Richter where he talks of an 

1 These last three lines were altered by my 
father from the 1832 edition, and written down 
by him for this Note. 



i 



NOTES 



907 



"abysmal Ich. " "I believe that re- 
demption is universal in so far as it left no 
obstacle between man and God but man's 
own will ; that indeed is in the power of 
God's election, with whom alone rest the 
abysmal secrets of personality" {A. H. 
Hallam s Remains, p. 132). 

P. 48, col. I, line 18. 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all. 

Cf. " moth - fretted garments." Not 
wrinkled, but worm -fretted (Old English 
fretan, to eat). 

P. 48, col. I, line 31. 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance. 

Some old writer calls the Heavens ' ' the 
Circumstance." When an undergraduate, 
a friend said to me, " How fine the word 
'circumstance' is, used in that sense." 
Here it is more or less a play on the word. 
The Ptolemaic astronomy describes the 
universe as scooped out of chaos. 

P. 49. Lady Clara Vere de Vere. 
[First published in 1842, although written 
early. — Ed.] A dramatic poem drawn 
from no particular character. 

P. 49, col. 2, line 19. 

The gardener Adam and his wife. 

' ' The grand old gardener " in my 
original MS. was altered to ' ' the gardener 
Adam" because of the frequent letters 
from friends asking me for explanation. 

P. 50. The May Queen. [An early 
poem first written in Lincolnshire, and 
published in the edition dated 1833, except 
the "Conclusion," added and published 
in 1842. FitzGerald says: ''The May 
Queen is all Lincolnshire inland, as Locksley 
Hall \is sea-board." — Ed.] 

P. 50, line 30. cuckoo-flowers. Lady's 
smock {Cardami?ie pratensis). [Cf. 
' ' When daisies pied and violets blue 

And lady-smocks all silver- white, " etc. 
Love's Labour's Lost, v. ii. 905. — Ed.] 

P. 51. The May Queen: New Year's 
Eve. 

P. 51, line 8. The blossotn on the 
blackthorn. ' ' The May upon the black- 
thorn " — how did this reading get into the 
original text ? The May was so late that 
there was only blackthorn in May. 



P. 51, line 12. Charles's Wain, "The 
Great Bear, "or " The Plough," or, accord- 
ing to the old Egyptians, "The Thigh." 

P. 52, The May Queen : Con- 
clusion. 

P. 53, line I. death-watch, a beetle 
{Anobium tessellatum) whose ticking is 
supposed to forebode death. 

P. 53, line 19. windov)-bars. Looks as 
if brought in for the rhyme. I was think- 
ing of our old house, where all the upper 
windows had iron bars, for there were 
eleven of us children living in the upper 
story. 

P. 54. The Lotos - Eaters. [First 
published in the edition dated 1833, much 
altered and published in 1842. — Ed,] The 
treatment of CEnone and The Lotos-Eaters 
is, as far as I know, original. Of course 
the subject of The Lotos-Eaters is taken 
from the Odyssey, ix. 82 foil. 

P. 54, hne 3. 
In the afterftoon they catne u?ito a land. 

"The strand" was, I think, my first 
reading, but the no rhyme of " land " and 
" land " was lazier. 

P. 54, line 8. 
And like a downward sr/ioke, the slefider 
streain. 

Taken from the waterfall at Gavarnie, 
in the Pyrenees, when I was 20 or 21. 

P. 54, line II. Slow-droppi?tg veils of 
thinnest lawn. Lying among these 
mountains before this waterfall, that comes 
down one thousand or twelve hundred feet, 
I sketched it (according to my custom 
then) in these words. 

P. 54, line 23. slender galingale. I 
meant the Cyperus papyrus of Linnaeus. 

P. 54, col. 2, line 15. wandering fields. 
Made by me on a voyage from Bordeaux 
to Dublin (1830). I saw a great creamy 
slope of sea on the horizon, rolling toward 
us. 

I often, as I say, chronicle on the spot, 
in four or five words or more, whatever 
strikes me as picturesque in nature. 

P. 54. Lotos-Eaters : Choric Song. 



9o8 



NOTES 



P. 54. 1- 6. 
Than tir-'d eyelids upon tird eyes. 

I printed, contrary to my custom, "tir'd," 
not ' ' tired, " for fear that the readers might 
pronounce the word "tired," whereas I 
wished them to read it " tierd," prolonging 
as much as might be the diphthongic i?- 

[When at Somersby (1830-37) my father 
now and then listened to the singing and 
playing of his sisters. He had a love for 
the simple style of Mozart, and for our own 
national airs and ballads, but only cared for 
complicated music as suggesting echoes of 
winds and waves. FitzGerald, in a note on 
The Dream of Fair Women, St. XLIV. , 
says : "A. T. was not thought to have an 
ear for music, and I remember little of his 
execution in that line except humming over 
' The weary pund o' tow, ' which was more 
because of the weary moral, I think, than for 
any music's sake. Carlyle, however, once 
said, ' The man must have music dormant 
in him, revealing itself in verse.' I re- 
member A. T. speaking of Haydn's 'Chaos,' 
which he had heard at some Oratorio. He 
said, ' The violins spoke of light. ' " Venables 
wrote in 1835 : "I almost wonder that you 
wilh your love of music atid tobacco do not 
go and live in some such place " (as Prague). 
Ed.] 

P. 55, col. 2, line 15. 
To the influence of mild-mhided melancholy. 

An early sonnet on " first love " {English- 
7nan's Magazijie, 1831) ran thus : 
Check every outflash, every ruder sally 
Of thought and speech ; speak low, and 

give up wholly 
Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy — 
This is the place : Thro' yonder poplar 

valley 
Below the blue-green river windeth slowly : 
But in the middle of the sombre valley 
The inspir'd waters whisper musically, 
And all the haunted place is dark and holy. 
The nightingale, with long and low pre- 
amble 
Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn 

larches, 
And in and out the woodbine's flowery 
arches 

1 Making the word neither monosyllabic nor 
dissyllabic, but a dreamy child of the two. 



The summer midges wove their wanton 

gambol, 
And all the white-stemm'd pinewood slept 

above — 
When in that valley first I told my love. 

P. 56, col. I, line 8. amaranth, the ' 
immortal flower of legend. 

P. 56, col. I, line 8. moly, the sacred 
herb of mystical power, used as a charm by 
Odysseus against Circe. 

P. 56, col. I, line 17. acanthus, the 
plant seen in the capitals of Corinthian 
pillars. 

P. 56, col. I, line 30. Ott the hills like 
Gods together. [Cf. note above on p. 904 
{CEnone, p. 41, col. 2, line 32), and 
Lucretius, v. 83, vi. 58 : 

Nam bene qui didicere deos securum agere 
aevum. 

Hor. Sat. i, 5. loi : 

Namque deos didici securum agere aevum. 

Ed.] 

P. 56. A Dream of Fair Women. 
Published in 1832 [in the edition dated 
1833, and much altered in 1842. — Ed.] 

[FitzGerald notes : ' ' The Dream of 
Fair Wo!}ien in the ist Ed. of (dated) 
1833 begins with the following stanzas, of 
which the three first may stand as a 
separate Poem : — 

As when a man that sails in a balloon, 
Down-looking, sees the solid shining 
ground 
Stream from beneath him in the broad 
blue noon, 
Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound : 

And takes his flags and waves them to the 
mob. 
That shout below, all faces turn'd to 
where 
Glows ruby-like the far-up crimson globe, 
Fill'd with a finer air ; 

So, lifted high, the poet at his will 

Lets the great world flit from him, seeing 
all, 
Higher thro' secret splendours mounting 
still, 
Self-poised, nor fears to fall, 



NOTES 



909 



Hearing apart the echoes of his fame. 
While I spoke thus, the seedsman, 
memory, 
Sow'd my deep - furrow'd thought with 
many a name, 
Whose glory will not die. " Ed.] 

P. 56, line 3. the morning star of song. 
Chaucer, the first great English poet, 
wrote the Legend of Good Women. From 
among these Cleopatra alone appears in 
my poem. 

P. 56, line 5. Dan, from dominus. 
[Cf. Spenser's 

' ' Dan Chaucer, well of English undefiled. " 
Faerie Queene, IV. ii. xxxii. — Ed.] 

P. 57, col. I, line 19. tortoise, the 
" testudo " of ancient war. WaiTiors 
with shields upheld on their heads ad- 
vanced, as under a strong shed, against 
the wall of a beleaguered city. 

P. 57, col. 2, line 18. In an old wood. 
The wood is the Past. Cf. p. 58, col. i, 
Hnes 15, 16 : 

the wood is all thine own 
Until the end of time, 
i.e. time backward. 

P. 57, col. 2, lines 25-28. 
The dim red moi'n had died, her journey 
done. 
And with dead lips smiled at the twilight 
plain, 
Halffall'n across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 

This stanza refers to the early past. 
How magnificently old Turner would have 
painted it. 

P. 58, col. I, line 17. 
At length I saw a lady within call. 
Helen of Troy. 

P. 58, col. I, line 19. A daughter of 
the gods, daughter of Zeus and Leda. 
Some call her daughter of Zeus and 
Nemesis. 

P. 58, col. I, line 32. 

To one that stood beside. 
Iphigenia, who was sacrificed by Aga- 
memnon to Artemis. 



P. 58, col. 2, fine 6. 
Which men call' d Aulis in those iron 
years. 

This line (as far as I recollect) is almost 
synchronous with the old reading ; but 
the inversion there, ' ' Which yet to name 
my spirit loathes and fears," displeased 
me. 

P. 58, col. 2, line 7. 

My father held his hatid upon his face. 

[No doubt my father had in his mind 
the famous picture by Timanthes, The 
Sacrifice of Iphigeneia (described by 
Valerius Maximus, viii. 11. 6), of which 
there is a Pompeiian wall-painting. Also 
the passage in Lucretius, i. 84 foil. — Ed.] 

P. 58, col. 2, lines 13-16. 
The high masts flicker d as they lay afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and 
the shore ; 
The bright death quiver d at the victim's 
throat ; 
Touch' d ; atid I knew no more. 

Originally the verse, which I thought too 
ghastly realistic, ran thus : 
The tall masts quiver' d as they lay afloat ; 
The temples and the people and the 
shore , 
One drew a sharp knife thro' my tender 
throat 
Slowly, — and nothing more. 

P. 58. col. 2, line 27. 
A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold 
black eyes. 
I was thinking of Shakespeare's Cleo- 
patra : 

" Think of me 
That am with Phoebus' amorous pinches 
black." 

Antony and Cleopatra, I. v. 28. 

Millais has made a mulatto of her in his 
illustration. I know perfectly well that 
she was a Greek. "Swarthy" merely 
means sunburnt. I should not have 
spoken of her breast as " polished silver " 
if I had not known her as a white woman. 
Read " sunburnt " if you like it better. 

P. 59, col. I, line 7. That dull cold- 
blooded CcBsar. [After the battle of Actium 
Cleopatra strove to fascinate Augustus, as 



pro 



NOTES 



she had fascinated Caesar, but, not suc- 
ceeding, "with a worm" she " balk'd " 
his determination to carry her captive to 
Rome. — Ed.] 

P. 59, col. I, Une 14. Canopus, in the 
constellation of Argo. 

P. 59, col. I, line 29. I died a Queen. 
Cf. " Non humilis mulier " (Hor. Od. \. 
37- 32). 

P. 59, col. 2, line 16. 
A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn. 
Jephthah's daughter. Cf. Judges, chap. xi. 

P. 60, col. I, line 28. battled, em- 
battled, battlemented. 

P. 60, col. 2, hne 5, 
Saw God divide the night with Jlying fiame. 

[Cf. 

Diespiter 
Igni corusco nubila dividens. 

Horace, Od. i. 34. 5. — Ed.] 

P. 60, col. 2, lines 17-19. 

my race 
Hew'dAmmon, hip and thigh, from A roer 
On Arfiott tinto Minneth. 
See Judges xi. 

P. 60, col. 2, line 23. _ 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. 
Threading the dark thickets. Cf. ' ' every 
bosky bourn " [Comus, 313). 

P. 61, col. I, line 7. Fiilvia, wife of 
Antony, named by Cleopatra as a parallel 
to Eleanor. 

P. 61, col. I, hnes 11, 12. 

The captain of my dreams 
Ruled in the eastei'Ji sky. 
Venus, the star of morning. 

P. 61, col. I, lines 14, 15. 

her, who clasp' d in her last trance 
Her murder d father s head. 

Margaret Roper, daughter of Sir Thomas 
More, who is said to have transferred his 
headless corpse from the Tower to Chelsea 
Church. Sir Thomas More's head had 
remained for fourteen days on London 
Bridge after his execution, and was about 
to be thrown into the Thames to make 
room for others, when she claimed and 
bought it. For this she was cast into 



prison. She died nine years after hei 
father, and was buried at St. Dunstan's, 
Cantei-bury, but in the year 1715 the vault 
was opened, and it is stated that she was 
found in her coffin, clasping the small 
leaden box which inclosed her father's 
head. 

P. 61, col. I, lines 17-20. 

Or her who knew that Love can vanquish 
Death, 
Who kneeli?ig, with one ami about her 
king. 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
b7-eath. 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 
Eleanor, wife of Edward I. , went with 
him to the Holy Land (1269), where he 
was stabbed at Acre with a poisoned 
dagger. She sucked the poison from the 
wound. 

P. 61. The Blackbird, [Written 
about 1833 and published in 1842. — Ed.] 

P. 61, line 12. jenneting, an early apple, 
ripe in June. Juneting, i.e. June-eating. 

P. 61, line 17. 

And in the sultry garden- squa?-es 
was in the original MS. 

I better brook the drawling stares, 
i.e. starlings. 

P. 61, lines 19, 20. 

/ hear thee not at all, or hoarse 
As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Charles Kingsley confirmed this. 

P. 62. The Death of the Old Year. 
[First published in 1832. — Ed.] 

P. 62, col. 2, line 2. rue for you, mourn 
for you. Cf. intransitive use of "rue" : 
' ' Nought shall make us rue. " 

King Joh7i, V. vii. 117. 

P. 62. To J. S. [First published in 
1832. — Ed.] Addressed to James Sped- 
ding, the biographer of Bacon. His brother 
was Edward Spedding, a friend of mine, 
who died in his youth. 

P. 62, line 19. Once thy-d mine oivn 
doors. The death of my father. [Charles 
Tennyson Turner writes (March 1831) : 
" He suffered little, and after death his 



NOTES 



911 



countenance, which was strikingly lofty 
and peaceful, was, I trust, an image of 
the condition of his soul, which on earth 
was daily racked by bitter fancies, and 
tossed about by stormy troubles." — Ed.] 

P. 63. On a Mourner. [Written 
early, but first published in Selections, 
1865. See Memoir, vol. ii. p. 19. — Ed.] 

P. 63, line 9. hummd the droppifig 
snipe. The snipe makes a humming noise 
as it drops toward earth. 

P. 63, line 10. marish-pipe, marestail. 
(Originally the paddock-pipe. ) 

P. 64, col. I, lines 14, 15. 

while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 
[Cf. Ae7ieid, iii. 135, 1/^7-177. — Ed.] 

P. 64. You ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL 

AT EASE. [Written about 1833, and first 
published in 1842. — Ed.] 

This and the two following poems. Of 
old sat Freedom and Love thou thy land, 
are said to have been versified from a 
speech by my friend Spedding at the 
Cambridge Union. I am reported as 
having gone home and written these three 
poems during the night and shown them 
to him in the morning. The speech is 
purely mythical ; at least I never heard it, 
and no poem of mine was ever founded 
upon it. 

In the first, You ask me why, etc. , there 
is a similarity to a note by Spedding [which 
Sir Henry Taylor has introduced at the 
close of one of his plays], and why not, 
for I thoroughly agreed with him about 
politics. Aubrey de Vere showed these 
poems to Wordsworth ; they were the 
first poems of mine which he read. [Cf. 
Memoir, vol. i. p. 126. — Ed.] 

P. 64, line II. 

[ Where Freedom slowly broadens down 
has been repeatedly misprinted ' ' broadens 
slowly." My father never, if he could 
help it, put two ss together, and the 
original MS. stood as it stands now. — 
Ed.] 

P. 64. Of old sat Freedom on the 
HEIGHTS. [First published in 1842, 
written about 1833. — Ed.] 



P. 64, line 15. 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks. 
Like Zeus with his " trisulca fulmina, " 
the thunderbolts. [Ovid, Met. ii. 848, 
" trisulcis ignibus " ; Ovid, lb. 471, " telo 
trisulco." — Ed.] 

P. 64. Love thou thy land, with 
love far-brought. [First published in 
1842, written about 1833. — Ed.] 

P. 65, col. 2, line 24. \the rising wind 
of revolutionary change. — Ed.] 

P. 66. England and America in 
1782. First published in a New York 
paper in 1874. 

P. 66. line 8. 

Ret aught the lesson thou hadst taught. 
Copy of part of a letter of mine to Walt 
Whitman : 

Nov. 15, '87. 

" The coming year should give new life 
to every American, who has breathed the 
breath of that soil which inspired the great 
founders of the American constitution, 
whose work you are to celebrate. Truly 
the mother -country, pondering on this, 
may feel that howmuchsoever the daughter 
owes to her, she the mother has something 
to learn from the daughter. Especially I 
would note the care taken to guard a 
noble constitution from rash and unwise 
innovators." 

P. 66. The Goose. [First published 
in 1842. — Ed.] 

P. 67. The Epic. Mrs. Browning 
wanted me to continue this : she has put 
my answer in Aurora Leigh. 

P. 68, col. I, line 11. mouthing out his 
hollow oes and aes. 

[Edward FitzGerald writes: " Morte 
d' Arthur when read to us from manuscript 
in 1835 had no introduction or epilogue ; 
which were added to anticipate or excuse 
the ' faint Homeric echoes,' etc.^ Mouth- 
ing out his hollow oes and aes, deep-chested 
music, this is something as A. T. read, 
with a broad north country vowel. . . . 
His voice, very deep and deep-chested, 
but rather murmuring than mouthing, like 

1 As in The Day-Dream, to give a reason' for 
telling an old-world tale. 



912 



NOTES 



the sound of a far sea or of a pine-wood. 
This voice, I remember, greatly struck 
Carlyle when he first came to know him. 
—Ed.] 

P. 68. MoRTE d'Arthur. [First 
written in 1835, and published in 1842. 
My father was fond of reading this poem 
aloud. At the end of May 1835 he re- 
peated some of it to FitzGerald while in a 
boat on Windermere. FitzGerald notes 
the two lines : 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills. 

'"That is not bad, I think,' (A. T. ) 
said to me while rowing on Windermere 
with him, in May 1835, when this Poem 
was in MS." 

In Skene's Foiir Ancient Books of Wales 
there are four primitive poems naming 
Arthur which my father often quoted : 

1. Vol. i. p. 259. Welsh in vol. ii. p. 155. 

2. ,, 261. ,, ,, 50. 

3. ,, 264. ,, ,, 181. 

4. ,, 266. ,, ,, 274 and 37. 
(i) is by Taliessin, named Kadeir 

Teyrnon (Sovereign's Chair), where Arthur 
is called "the blessed Arthur." 

(2) only names Arthur. 

(3) is also by Taliessin, named Preidden 
Annwfn (the Spoils of Hades), and appears 
to relate to one of Arthur's expeditions. 

(4) on Geraint and Llongborth, where 
Arthur is called ' ' Amheraudyr llauur ' ' — 
" Imperator laboris. " 

Arthur's unknown grave is mentioned in 
No. XLiv. of the Verses on the Graves of 
Warriors (Englynnionn y Bedef) (Skene, 
vol. i. 315 and ii. 28) : 

' ' A mystery to the world, the grave of 
Arthur." 

In the Triads of Arthur and his Warriors 
(Skene, vol. ii. pp. 456-7), Arthur's name 
is mentioned in No. i. as chief lord of 
three tribe thrones, and occurs again in 
Nos. XVIII., XXIII. 

The seventh stanza of the Apple song 
about Arthur, as printed in Stephens' 
Literahire of the Kymry, 1876 (which my 
father considered an excellent book), 
prophesies the return of Arthur and Med- 



rawd, and renewal of the battle of Camlan. 
—Ed.] 

P. 68, line 4. Lyojmesse. The country 
of legend that lay between Cornwall and 
the Scilly Islands and included part of 
Cornwall. 

P. 68, col. 2, line 9. samite, a rich silk 
stuff inwrought with gold and silver threads. 
{e^dfjLLTOv, woven with six kinds of thread. ) 

P. 69, col. I, line 3. topaz-lights. The 
topaz is a precious stone of varying colours 
(perhaps from root "tap," to shine. — 
Skeat). 

P. 69, col. I, line 3. jacinth is the 
hyacinth stone, blue and purple. Cf. 
Rev. xxi. 20. 

P. 69, col. I, line 6. 
This way and that dividiiig the swift mi7id. 
A translation of Virgil, Aeneid, iv. 285 : 
Atque animum nunc hue celerem, nunc 
dividit illuc. 
iv 8e ot iJTop . . . 5taf 5txa jmepfJii^pL^ev. 
IL i. 188. 

P. 69, col. I, line 26. lief beloved. 
Alder-liefest (2 Hen. VI. I. i. 28), most 
beloved of all. 

P. 70, col. I, line 15. a streamer of the 
northern morn, Aurora Borealis. 

P. 70, col. I, line 16. the moving isles 
of winter, icebergs. 

P. 70, col. I, line 31. three lives oj 
mortal men. Nestor was called rpiyepcov. 
Anthol. P. vii. 144. Cf. Od. iii. 245 : 
Tp\% yap drj fxlv (paatv ava^acrdai yive* 
dv8pwi>. 

P. 71, col. I, line 11. Three Queens. 
In the original Morte U Arthur one was 
King Arthur's sister, Queen Morgan le 
Fay ; the other was the Queen of North- 
galis ; the third was the Queen of the 
Waste Lands. Some sa)'^ that the three 
Queens are Faith, Hope, and Charity. 

[The Bishop of Ripon once asked my 
father whether they were right who inter- 
preted the three Queens as Faith, Hope, 
and Charity. He answered : ' ' They are 
right, and they are not right. They mean 
that, and they do not. They are three of 
the noblest of women. They are also 



NOTES 



913 



those three Graces, but they are much 
more. I hate to be tied down to say, 
' This means that, ' because the thought 
within the image is much more than any 
one interpretation." — Ed.] 

P. 71, col. I, Une 28. greaves and 
cuisses, leg and thigh armour [coxa, thigh). 

P. 71, col, 2, line 24. 
Lest one good custom should cornipt the 

zvorld. 
E.g. chivalry, by formalism of habit or by 
any other means. 

P. 72, col. I, line 5. Bound by gold 
chains. [My father said that this passage 
was not, as has been said, suggested by 
//. viii. 19 : 

aetprjv xpvcreiijv e^ ovpavSOev KpejudcravTes, 
Trdvres 8' i^diTTecrde deol iraaai re deaiuai' 
dXX' ovK 8iu epvcraLT^ e^ ovpavbdev -rrediovde 
TiTjv virarov yd]aTi)}p\ ov8' el ywdXa iroXXa 

Kdjuboire. 
or by Plato, Theaetetus, 153. — Ed.] 

P, 72, col. I, line 9. 

To the island-valley of Avilio?i, 
or Avalon. There is an island of this 
name off Brittan)s and Avilion also stands 
for the ancient "isle of Glastonbury." 
The Welsh Afallon literally means the 
"Apple-trees." It is here the island to 
which Arthur is borne in the barge, and 
from which he will some day return — the 
Isle of the Blest. 

P. 72, col. I, line 10. 

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snotu. 

Cf. Od. iv. 566 : 

Q-u ULcperos, o{jt' Sip xei^coi' TroXds oiire ttot 

ofx^pos. 

and Lucretius, De Rei'uni Natura, iii. 18 

foil. : 

. . . sedesque quietae 

Quas neque concutiunt venti, nee nubila 

nimbis 
Aspergunt neque nix acri concreta pruina 
Cana cadens violat semperque innubilus 

aether 
Integit, et large diffuse lumine rident. 

P. 72, col. I, line 12. Deep-meadow' d. 
drJKev Be Kal ^a6v\e[/Mou virb Kippas dyojp 
irirpav KpaTrjaiiroda ^pcfclav. 

Pind. Pyth. x. 23. 



Also "Ai'^etai' ^adijXcifiov , Horn. //. ix. 151. 

P. 72, col. I, line 13. crown d with 
sii}nmer sea. Cf. 

VTjaov, rriu iripi irbvTos direipiTos ecrre^di/w- 
rai. Od. x. 195. 

P. 72. The Gardener's Daughter ; 
OR, THE Pictures. Written at Cambridge 
[and corrected in Spedding's chambers at 
60 Lincoln's Inn Fields, and published in 
1842. — Ed.] 

The centre of the poem, that passage 
describing the girl, must be full and rich. 
The poem is so, to a fault, especially the 
descriptions of nature, for the lover is an 
artist, but, this being so, the central picture 
must hold its place. 

P. 73, col. I, lines 37, 38, • 
Barge-laden, to three aixhes of a bHdge 
Crowfi'd with the minster-towers. 
Sir Henry Taylor used to quote this as a 
picture for a painter. 

P. 74, col. 1, line 15. 
The mellotu ouzel (pronounced oozel) fluted 
in the elm. 

' ' The wooselcock so black of hue, 
With orange-tawny bill," 
Afid. Night's Dream, in. i. 128. 
The merry blackbird sang among the trees 
would seem quite as good a line to nine- 
tenths of all English men and women. 
Who knows but that the Cockney may 
come to read it : 

The meller housel fluted i' the helm. 
Who knows what English may come to ? 

P. 74, col. I, line 16. redcap. Provin- 
cial for goldfinch. 

[I remember my father's telling me that 
FitzGerald had guessed rightly that the 
autumn landscape, which in the first edition 
was described in the lines beginning " Her 
beauty grew," was taken from the back- 
ground of a Titian (Lord Ellesmere's Ages 
of Man). My father said that perhaps in 
consequence they had been omitted. They 
ran thus : 
Her beauty grew : till drawn in narrowijig 

arcs 
The southing Autumn touch' d with sallower 

gleams 
The granges on the fallows. At that time 

3 N 



914 



NOTES 



Tired of the noisy town I wander'd there ; 
The bell toll'd four ; and by the time I 

reach'd 
The Wicket-gate I found her by herself. 

Ed.] 

P. j^. Dora. [Written about 1835, 
and first published in 1842. — Ed.] Partly 
suggested by Miss Mitford's story, Dora 
Creswell, which is cheerful in tone, whereas 
this is sad ; it is the same landscape — one 
in sunshine, the other in shadow. 

Spedding used humorously to say that 
this was the poem which Wordsworth 
always intended to have written. 



P. jj, lines 15, 16. 



Had once hard words. 



he and I 



This quarrel is not in Miss Mitford. 

P. 78, col. I, line 22. 
Far off the farmer came into the field. 
From this line to the end of the poem I 
have not followed Miss Mitford. 

P. 78, col, I, line 27. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dai'k. 
5i5creT6 t' if^Xios, CKibfjivrb re Traaai dyvLai. 
Homer, Od. passim. 

P. 79. AUDLEY Court. [First pub- 
lished in 1842. — Ed.] Partially suggested 
by Abbey Park at Torquay in the old time. 

P. 80, col. I, line 27. four field system 
[the planting in rotation of turnips, barley, 
clover, and wheat. — Ed.] 

P. 81, col. I, hne 15. 
Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm. 
This line was added afterwards. No 
reader seemed to have understood this 
allusion. A French translator has trans- 
lated it une verte dtincelle. Torquay was 
in the old days the loveliest sea-village in 
England, and is now a town. In those 
old days I, coming down from the hill 
over Torquay, saw a "star of phosphor- 
escence " made by the little buoy appearing 
and disappearing in the dark sea, and was 
at first puzzled by it. 

P. 81. Walking TO THE Mail. [First 
published in 1842. — Ed.] 



P. 82, col. 2, line 7. fiayfiint, a skin- 
flint. 

P. 82, col. 2, line 9. [ M>V paid in 
person. He had a sow, sir. This is an 
Eton story. The ' ' leads " were above 
Long Chamber. — Ed.] 

P. 83, col. I, Hne i. best foot. "Best 
boot" was a misprint in several editions. 

P. 83. Edwin Morris ; or, the Lake. 
[First published in 1851. — Ed.] 

P. 84, col. I, line 22, \T he Latin song 
I learnt at school refers to Catullus, Acme 
and Sepfimius, xlv. lines 8, 9 : 

Hoc ut dixit. Amor, sinistra ut ante, 
Dextram sternuit approbationem. 

Ed.] 

P. 84, col. 2, line 25. Sweet-Gale, bog- 
myrtle. 

P. 85, col. I, line 18. a mystic token 
from the king. Writ from the old Court of 
Common Pleas. 

P. 85. St. Simeon Stylites. [First 
published in 1842. To be read of in 
Gibbon's Decline and Fall, iv. 320 
(Milman-Smith's), and Hone's Every-Day 
Book, vol. i. pp. 35-36. FitzGerald notes : 
' ' This is one of the Poems A. T. would 
read with grotesque Grimness, especially 
at such passages as ' Coughs, Aches, 
Stitches, etc.,' laughing aloud at times." 
See the pendant to this poem, St. Tele- 
machus, p. 878. — Ed.] 

P. 88. The Talking Oak. [First 
published in 1842. My father told Aubrey 
de Vere that ' ' the poem was an experi- 
ment meant to test the degree in which it 
was in his power as a poet to humanise 
external nature." — Ed.] 

P. 89, col. 2, line 3. BUiff Harry. 
Henry VHL : "the man-minded offset" 
of the next stanza being Elizabeth. Spence, 
the monks' buttery. 

P. 89, col. 2, lines 11, 12, 

In which the gloomy brezver's soul 
Went by me, like a stork. 
It is said that history " does not justify 
the poet in calling him a brewer." No, 
but that old Tory the oak calls him a 
brewer, as the old Cavaliers did. 

Like a stork. The stork, a republican 



NOTES 



91S 



bird, is said to have gone out of England 
with the Commonwealth. And tho' the 
Commonwealth did not expire till some 
months after the death of Oliver, it prac- 
tically went out with him. The night 
when he died was a night of storm. 

P. 89, col. 2, line 19. 

In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 
Queen Anne's times. 

P. 89, col, 2, line 23. 

The modish Cupid of the day. 
In many editions misprinted " modest." 

P. 90, col. I, line 39. holt, copse. 

P. 91, col. I, line 11. those blind 
motions of the Spring. Rising of the sap. 

P. 92, col. 2, line 8. 

Or that Thessalian growth. 

[The oaks of Dodona in Epirus. The 
Thessalians came out of Thesprotia. Cf. 
Herod, vii. 176. — Ed.] 

The oaks are those on which the swarthy 
dove, flying from Thebes in Egypt, sat 
and pronounced that in this place should 
be set up an oracle of Zeus. [Cf. Soph. 
Trach. 171 ; Herod, ii. 55. — Ed.] 

P. 92. Love and Duty. [First pub- 
lished in 1842. — Ed.] 

P. 93, col. 2, line 7, The slow sweet 
hours. Cf. Theocritus, A/k/ XV. 104-105: 
(3a.p8L(TTai. fiaKapcov ^Qpai (piXai dWa 

irodeLval 
'^pXovraL iravrecraL ^porots alel tl (pipoiaaL. 

P. 94, col. I, line 2. pathos. This 
word is used in opposition to apathetic in 
line 18, page 92. 

The set gray life, arid apathetic end. 

P. 94. The Golden Year. [First 
published in 1846. — Ed.] 

P. 94, col. 2, line 2. daughters of the 
horseleech. ' ' The horseleach hath two 
daughters, crying, Give, give" (Proverbs 
XXX. 15), 

P. 95, col. 2, line 3. high above : " high 
o'erhead" original reading. 

P. 95, col. 2, line 5. 
Ayid buffet I'ound the hills, from bluff to bluff. 

Onomatopoeic. "Bluff to bluff" gives 
the echo of the blasting as I heard it from 



the mountain on the counter side, opposite 
to Snowdon, 

P. 95. Ulysses. [First published in 
1842. Edward FitzGerald notes : "This 
was the Poem which, as might perhaps be 
expected, Carlyle liked best in the Book. 
I do not think he became acquainted with 
A. TT'tTlT" after these Volumes (1842) 
appeared ; being naturally prejudiced 
against one whom every one was praising, 
and praising for a Sort of Poetry which he 
despised. But directly he saw, and heard, 
the Man, he knew there was A Man to 
deal with : and took pains to cultivate 
him ; assiduous in exhorting him to leave 
Verse and Rhyme, and to apply his Genius 
to Prose and Work.'' — Ed.] 

Carlyle wrote to me when he read 
Ulysses : ' ' These lines do not make me 
weep, but there is in me what would fill 
whole Lachrymatories as I read." Cf. 
Odyssey, xi. 100-137, and Dante, Inferno, 
Canto xxvi. 90 foil. : 

Quando 
Mi diparti' da Circe, che sottrasse 
Me piu d' un anno la presso a Gaeta, 
Prima che si Enea la nominasse, 
Ne dolcezza di figlio, x\h la pieta 

Del vecchio padre, ne il debito amore, 
Lo qual dovea Penelope far lieta, 
Vincer poter dentro da me 1' ardore 

Ch' i' ebbi a divenir del mondo esperto, 
E degli vizii umani e del valore ; 
Ma misi me per 1' alto mare aperto 

Sol con un legno e con quella compagna 
Picciola, dalla qual non fui deserto. 
L' un lito e 1' altro vidi infin la Spagna, 
Fin nel Marrocco, e 1' isola de" Sardi, 
E r altre che quel mare intorno bagna. 
To e i compagni eravam vecchi e tardi, 
Quando venimmo a quella foce stretta, 
Ov' Ercole segn6 li suoi riguardi, 
Acciocch6 r uom piu oltre non si metta ; 
Dalla man destra mi lasciai Sibilia, 
Dair altra gia m' avea lasciata Setta. 
" O frati," dissi, " che per cento milia 
Perigli siete giunti all' occidente, 
A questa tanto picciola vigilia 
Dei vostri sensi, ch' e del rimanente, 
Non vogliate negar 1' esperienza, 
Diretro al sol, del mondo senza gente. 
Considerate la vostra semenza : 
Fatti non foste a viver come bruti, 
Ma per seguir virtute e conoscenza." 



9i6 



NOTES 



[In the Odyssey, xi. 100-137, the ghost 
of Tiresias foretells his future to Ulysses. 
He is to return home to Ithaca and to slay 
the suitors. After which he is to set off 
again on a mysterious voyage. This is 
elaborated by the author of the Telegoneia. 
My father, like Eugammon, takes up the 
story of further wanderings at the end of 
the Odyssey. Ulysses has lived in Ithaca 
for a long while before the craving for 
fresh travel seizes him. The comrades he 
addresses are of the same heroic mould as 
his old comrades. 1 — Ed.] 

The poem was written soon after Arthur 
Hallam's death, and it gives the feeling 
about the need of going forward and 
braving the struggle of life perhaps more 
simply than anything in In Memoriam. / 

P. 95, line 10. the rainy Hyades. 
Arcturum pluviasque Hyadas geminosque 
Triones. Virgil, Aen. i. 744. 

P. 95, line 18. 

/ am a part of all that I have met. 

Cf. "quorum pars magna fui " (Virgil, 
Aen. ii. 6). 

P. 96, col. I, line 5. spirit yearning. 
[Accusative absolute. — Ed. ] 

P. 96, col. 2, lines i, 2. 

well i?i order smite 

The sounding furrows. 
6^775 5' e^'6/xevoL TroXirju dXa rdirrov iper/xois. 
(A line frequent in Homer's Odyssey. ) 

P. 96. TiTHONUS. Beloved by Aurora, 
who gave him eternal life but not eternal 
youth. He grew old and infirm, and as 
he could not die, according to the legend, 
was turned into a grasshopper. 

[This poem was first published in the 
Cornhill Magazine, February i860, and 
was praised by Matthew Arnold, who greatly 
admired the blank verse. My father writes 
in this year : ' ' My friend Thackeray and 
his publishers had been so urgent with me 
to send them something, that I ferreted 
among my old books and found this 
Titho?ius, written upwards of a quarter of 
a century ago, and now queerly enough at 
the tail of a flashy novel." — Ed,] 

1 Perhaps the Odyssey has not been strictly 
adhered to, and some of the old comrades may be 
still left. 



P. 97, col. I, line 8. the silver star, 
Venus. 

P. 97, col. I, line 13. the goal of ordin- ' 
ance, appointed limit. 

P. 97, col. 2, line 28. I earth in earth. 
" Terra in terra" (Dante). Forget. Will 
forget. 

P. 98. LoCKSLEY Hall. [First pub- 
lished in 1842. — Ed.] An imaginary place 
and imaginary hero. 

Mr. Hallam said to me that the English 
people liked verse in trochaics, so I wrote 
the poem in this metre. 

[Sir William Jones' prose translation of 
the Modllakdt, the seven Arabic poems 
(which are a selection from the work of 
pre-Mohammedan poets) hanging up in the 
temple of Mecca, gave the idea of the 
poem. 

My father spoke and wrote of this and 
Maud and other monodramatic poems 
thus : " In a certain way, no doubt, poets 
and novelists, however dramatic they are, 
give themselves in their works. The mis- 
take that people make is that they think 
the poet's poems are a kind of ' catalogue 
raisonn^ ' of his very own self, and of all 
the facts of his life, not seeing that they 
often only express a poetic instinct, or 
judgment on character real or imagined, 
and on the facts of lives real or imagined. 
Of course some poems, hke my Ode to 
Memory, are evidently based on the poet's 
own nature, and on hints from his own 
life."— Ed.] 

P. 98, line 4. 
Drea7y gleams about the moorland flying 

over Locks ley Hall. 
/. e. while dreary gleams of light are fl5ang 
across a dreary moorland, — put absolutely 
radiis volajitibus (not referring to the 
curlews, as some commentators insist). 

Edward FitzGerald notes about verses ii. 
and iii. : "This is all Lincolnshire coast : 
about Mablethorpe, where A. T. stayed 
much, and where he said were the finest 
Seas except in Cornwall." 

P. 99, hues 29, 30. 
Well— 'tis well that T should bluster ! — 

Hadst tho7i less imworthy proved — 
Would to God— for I had loved thee more 

thajt ever wife was loved. 



NOTES 



917 



He is a passionate young man, and the 
same emotional nature is reproduced in 
old age in the second Locksley Hall. The 
whole poem represents young life, its good 
side, its deficiencies, and its yearnings. 

P. 99, line 34. crow. Rooks are called 
crows in the Northern Counties. 

P. 100, line 6. 
That a sorroxv s crozv/i of sorrow is remem- 
bering happier things. 
Ed ella a me : ' ' Nessun maggior dolore, 

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nellamiseria." Dante, Inf. v. 121. 

P. loi, lines 7, 8. 
And at night along the dzisky highway ?iear 

and fiearer drazvfi, 
Sees in heave?i the light of London flaring 
like a dreary datun. 

A simile drawn from old times and the 
top of the mail-coach. They that go by 
trains seldom see this. 

P. loi, lines 29, 30. 
Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lio?t 

creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behitid 

a slowly-dying fire. 
and supra, p. 98, lines 33, 34. 
Love took up the hatp of Life, and smote on 

all the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self that, trembling, 

pass'd in music out of sight. 
[my father considered two of his finest 
similes. The image of the lion was founded 
on a passage from A Narrative of a Resi- 
dence in South Africa, by Thomas Pringle, 
p. 39 : " About midnight we were suddenly 
roused by the roar of a lion close to our 
tents. It was so loud and tremendous that 
for the moment I actually thought that a 
thunderstorm had burst upon us. . . . We 
roused up the half-e.xtinguished fire to a 
roaring blaze." — Ed.] 

P. loi, line 32. process of the suns, 
progress of years. 

P. 102. [After line 18, ending "knots 
of Paradise," in the original MS. was the 
following fine couplet : 
All about a summer ocean, leagues on 

leagues of golden calm. 
And within melodious waters rolling round 
the knolls of palm. Ed. J 



P. 103, line 4. 
Let the great world spin for ever down the 
ringing grooves of change. 

When I went by the first train from 
Liverpool to Manchester (1830) I thought 
that the wheels ran in a groove. It was a 
black night, and there was such a vast 
crowd round the train at the station that 
we could not see the wheels. Then I 
made this line. 

P. 103, line 6. Cathay, the old name 
for China, 

P. 103. GoDiVA. [Written after his 
visit to Stratford -on -Avon, Kenilworth, 
and Coventry in 1840, and first published 
in 1842. Lady Godiva lived in the middle 
of the eleventh century. She was sister of 
Thoroldus de Bukendale in Lincolnshire, 
of which county she was vice-comes or 
sheriff. She married Leofric, Count of 
Leicester or Mercia, as the charter of 
Thoroldus published in the Codex Diplo- 
matic. Anglo-Sax. vol. iv. p. 126 shows. 
This charter, dated 1057, commences thus : 
• ' Ego Thoroldus de Bukendale coram 
nobilissimo domino meo Leofrico Comite 
Leycesterie et nobilissima Comitessa sua 
Domina Godiva sorore mea," etc. — Ed.] 

See Sir William Dugdale's A?itiquities 
of Warwickshire (1656), who writes : 
"The Countess Godiva, bearing an extra- 
ordinary affection to this place (Coventry), 
often and earnestly besought her husband 
that, for the love of God and the blessed 
Virgin, he would free it from that grievous 
servitude whereunto it was subject ; but he, 
rebuking her for importuning him in a 
manner so inconsistent with his profit, 
commanded that she should thenceforward 
forbear to move thereon ; yet she, out of 
her womanish pertinacity, continued to 
solicit him, insomuch that he told her if 
she would ride on horseback naked from 
one end of the town to the other, in sight 
of all the people, he would grant her re- 
quest. Whereunto she replied, ' But will 
ye give me leave to do so ? ' And he re- 
plying 'Yes,' the noble lady, upon an 
appointed day, got on horseback naked, 
with her hair loose, so that it covered all 
her body but her legs ; and thus perform- 
ing her journey, she returned with joy to 
her husband, who thereupon granted to the 



9i8 



NOTES 



inhabitants a charter of freedom. ... In 
memory whereof the picture of him and his 
lady was set up in a south window of 
Trinity Church in this city about Richard 
II. 's time, his right hand holding a charter 
with these words written thereon : — 
I, Luriche, for love of thee, 
doe make Coventry Tol-free. ' " 

P. 103, line II. a thousand summers. 
Earl Leofric died in 1057. [He and Lady 
Godiva were buried in the porch of the 
Monastery, of which there are still some 
ruins. — Ed.] 

P. 104, col. I, line 20. wide-mout/i d 
heads, gargoyles. 

P. 104. The Day-Dream. [Part of 
this poem, The Sleeping Beauty, was pub- 
lished in 1830, the other part was published 
in 1842. 

Edward FitzGerald writes : ' ' The Pro- 
logue and Epilogue were added after 1835 
(when the poem was written), for the same 
reason that caused the Prologue of the 
Morte d Arthur, giving an excuse for tell- 
ing an old-world tale. ... Of this second 
volume the Morte d! Arthur, Day-Dream, 
Lord of Buj-leigh were in MS. in a little 
red Book, from which they were read to 
me and Spedding of a Night, ' when all 
the House was mute,' at Spedding's House, 
Mirehouse, by Bassenthwaite Lake, in 
Cumberland. " — Ed. ] 

P. 106. The Revival. Line 25. 
Pardy, par dieu. 

" Why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy." 
Hamlet, ill. ii. 305. 

P. 107. The Departure. Line 4. 
In that new world which is the old. 
The world of Love. 

P. 107, line 22. crescent-bark, crescent- 
moon. 

P. 108, L'Envoi. Col. I, lines 19, 20. 
Where on the double 7-osebtid droops 
The fulness of the pettsive mind. 
A recollection of the bust of Clytie. 

P. 108. Epilogue. Lines 7, 8. 
Like long-tail' d birds of Paradise 
That float thro Heaven, atid cannot light. 
[" The great bird of Paradise, Paradisea 



apoda, which was the first known repre- 
sentative of the entire family, derives its 
specific name from having been described 
by Linnaeus from a skin prepared in the 
Papuan fashion with the wings and feet 
cut oflf" (Lydekker, Royal Nat. Hist.).— 
Ed.] 

P. 108. Amphion. [First published in 
1842. My mother writes of this poem : 
' ' Genius must not deem itself exempt 
from work." — Ed.] 

P. 109. St. Agnes' Eve. F'irst pub- 
lished in The Keepsake, 1837. The poem 
is a pendant to " Sir Galahad. " 

P. no, col. I, line 6. One sabbath. 
' 'Are " was misprinted for " one " in The 
Keepsake. No revises were sent me. 

P. no. Sir Galahad. [First pub- 
lished in 1842. Ed\vard FitzGerald notes : 
' ' Of the Chivalry Romances he said to me, 
' I could not read Palmeriti of England, nor 
Amadis, nor any other of those Romances 
through. The Morte d' Arthur is much 
the best : there are very fine things in [it] ; 
but all strung together without Art." " — 
Ed.] 

P. no, col. 2, line 6. 

Three angels bear the holy Grail. 

"The Holy Grail" was originally the 
Holy Dish at the Last Supper, and is 
probably derived from cratella, a little 
bowl. Then it was said by some to be the 
dish in which Joseph of Arimathoea caught 
the blood of Christ as He hung on the 
cross ; afterwards by others to be the cup 
of sacramental wine used at the Last 
Supper, and to have been brought by 
Joseph to England. [Cf. Malory's Morte 
d' Arthur, Bk. xvii. chaps, xviii.-xxii. In 
chap. xxii. Joseph of Arimathasa says to 
Sir Galahad : ' ' Thou hast resembled me 
in two things, in that thou hast seen the 
marvels of the Sangreal, and in that thou 
hast been a clean maiden, as I have been 
and am." — Ed.] 

P. III. Edv^^ard Gray. [First written 
in a letter to my mother in 1840, and 
published in 1842. — Ed.] Sir Arthur 
Sullivan has set this well. 

P. III. Will Waterproof's Lyrical 
Monologue. [First published in 1842. 



NOTES 



919 



Edward FitzGerald writes : " The ' plump 
Head-waiter of The Cock,' by Temple 
Bar, famous for chop and porter, was 
rather offended when told of this poem. 
' Had Mr. Tennyson dined oftener there, 
he would not have minded it so much,' he 
said. I think A. T. 's chief Dinner-resort 
in these Ante-laureate Days was Bertolini's 
at the Newton's Head, close to Leicester 
Square. We sometimes called it Dirto- 
lini's ; but not seriously : for the Place 
was clean as well as very cheap, and the 
Cookery good for the Price. Bertolini 
himself, who came to take the money at 
the end of the Feast, was a grave and 
polite man. He retired with a Fortune, I 
think." — Ed.] 

P. 112, col. I, Une 21. raffs, scraps. 
["A fansie fed me ones to wryte in verse 

and rime, 
To wing my griefe, to crave reward, to 

aver still my crime ; 
To frame a long discourse on stirring of a 

strawe, 
To rumble rime in raffe and ruffe, yet all 
not worth an hawe. " 

Gascoigne, The Green Knight's 
Farewell to Fansie. 

Ed.] 
P. 112, col. 2, line 43. 
Sipt %ui?iefrom silver, praising God. 
As the bird drinks he holds up his neck. 
There is accordingly an old English say- 
ing about the cock " praising God " when 
he drinks. 

P. 113, col. I, line 4. 

That knuckled at the taw. 
A phrase that every boy knows from the 
game of marbles. 

P. 113, col. 2, line 27. ana, Shak- 
speariana, Scaligerana, etc. [Swarm'd, 
caused to swarm. — Ed,] 

P. 114, col. I, line 7. Old boxes. The 
pews where the diners sit [which have 
been transferred to the new ' ' Cock 
Tavern."— Ed.]. 

P. 114, col. I, line 32. [One of the 
ancient "pint-pots neatly graven" was 
presented to my father by the proprietors 
when the old tavern was pulled down. — 
Ed.] 



P. 114. Lady Clake. [First pub- 
lished in 1842. — Ed.] Founded on Miss 
Ferrier's novel of The Inheritance. 

The following stanza was originally in 
place of the existing first two stanzas, and 
the poem began : 

Lord Ronald courted Lady Clare, 
I trow they did not part in scorn. 

Lord Ronald her cousin courted her. 
And they will wed the morrow morn. 

P. 114, col. 2, Hne 14. as I live by 
bread was a common phrase. Cf. ' ' As 
true as I am alive." 

P. 114, col. 2, line 25. 

[Peter Bayne wrote to my father in 
1890 : "A serious flaw has been allowed 
by you to remain in one of your master- 
pieces, in quality if not in size. When 
Lady Clare's nurse tells her that she is her 
own child, she. Lady Clare, uses in reply 
the words, 'If I'm a beggar born.' The 
criticism of my heart tells me that Lady 
Clare could never have said that." To 
which my father replies : ' ' You make no 
allowance for the shock of the fall from 
being Lady Clare to finding herself the 
child of a nurse. She speaks besides not 
I without a certain anger. • Peasant-born ' 
would be tame and passionless." — Ed.] 

P. 115. The Captain. A Legend of 
THE Navy. [First published in 1865. — 
Ed. ] Possibly suggested by the story told 
of the ship Hermione (1797). Published 
first in my Selections, 1865. 

P. 116. The Lord of Burleigh. 
[First published in 1842. — Ed.] Line 8. 
And a village maiden she. 

Sarah Hoggins, a Shropshire maiden, 
became wife of the ninth Earl of Exeter in 
1791. 

[She is said, locally, to have often talked 
to her dairy-maids, and told them how 
much happier she was in old times. 
Edward FitzGerald writes : ' ' When this 
Poem was read from MS. in 1835 I 
remember the Author doubting if it were 
not too familiar with its ' Let us see the 
handsome houses, etc.,' for public Taste. 
But a Sister, he said, had liked it : we 
never got it out of our heads from the 
first hearing ; and now, is there a greater 
favourite where English is spoken ? " — Ed.] 



920 



NOTES 



P. ii6, col. 2, lines 45, 46. 
As it were with shame she bhishes. 
And her spirit cha?iged within. 
The mood changes from happiness to 
unhappiness, and the present tense changes 
to the past. 

P. 117. The Voyage. [First published 
in 1864. — Ed.] Life is the search after 
the ideal. See Henry Sidgwick : A Memoir, 
p. 120 : 

' ' What growth there is in the man 
mentally ! How he has caught the spirit 
of the age in The Voyage ! I thought he 
had fallen off into the didactic-dramatic 
mood that grows on poetic souls with 
advancing years ; but how wonderful — to 
me — is the lyricised thought of verse 9. I 
cannot get it out of my head : 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the 
sea, 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 
How sad — but a chastened sadness, our 
sadness — that of the second half of the 
19th century — no ' Verzweiflung. ' The 
dream in City Clerks ^Sea Drea7ns'] is as 
good ; but, you know, I am always most 
moved by lyrics." 

P. 118, col. I, line 3. the whole sea 
burnd, i.e. with phosphorescence. 

P. 118, col. I, line 36. laws of nature 
were our sco?-fi. [We felt that the Free 
Will is not bound by the Laws that govern 
the Material Universe. — Ed.] 

P. 118, col. 2, line 3. the zvltirlwind's 
heart of peace, the calm centre of the 
whirlwind. 

P. 118. Sir Launcelot and Queen 
Guinevere. [First pubhshed in 1842. 
See The Coyning of Arthur : 
And Lancelot past away among the flowers, 
(For then was latter April) and return 'd 
Among the flowers, in May. 

Edward FitzGerald notes : ' ' Some verses 
of Sir Launcelot' s Courtship were handed 
about among us in 1832 (I think) at 
Cambridge : 

Life of the Life within my Blood, 

Light of the Light within mine Eyes, 



The May begins to breathe and bud, 
And softly blow the balmy skies : 

Bathe with me in the fiery Flood, 

And mingle Kisses, Tears, and Sighs — 

Life of the Life within my Blood, 

Light of the Light within mine Eyes ! " 
Ed.] 

P. 118, line 12. sparhawk, sparrow- 
hawk. 

P. 119. A Farewell. [To the brook 
at Somersby. First published in 1842. — 
ED.] 

P. 119. The Beggar Maid. [First 

published in 1842. — Ed.] 

' ' Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so 
trim, 

When King Cophetua loved the beggar- 
maid. " Rom. and Jtil. II. i. 14. 

P. 119. The Eagle. [First published 
in 1851. — Ed.] 

P. 119. Move eastward, happy 
EARTH, AND LEAVE. [First published in 
1842. — Ed.] Line 6. Thy silver sister- 
world, the moon. 

P. 119. Come not, when I am dead. 
[First published in The Keepsake, 1851. — 
Ed.] The first printed " But go thou by " 
was an error of the printers for ' ' But thou, 
go by." 

P. 120. The Letters. [First pubhshed 
in 1855.— Ed.] 

P, 120. The Vision of Sin. [First 
pubhshed in 1842. Edward FitzGerald 
writes : " Oddly enough, Johnson's ' Long- 
expected One-and-Twenty ' has the swing, 
and something of the Spirit of the old 
Sinner's Lyric. " — Ed. ] This describes the 
soul of a youth who has given himself up 
to pleasure and Epicureanism. He at 
length is worn out an.d wrapt in the mists 
of satiety. Afterwards he grows into a 
cynical old man afflicted with the ' ' curse 
of nature," and joining in the Feast of 
Death. Then we see the landscape which 
symbolizes God, Law and the future life. 

P. 123, col. 2, line 2. 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with 

time. 
The sensualist becomes worn out by his 

senses. 



NOTES 



92] 



[Two lines are omitted here which were 
published in 1865, and were intended by 
my father to make the thought clearer : 
Another answer' d : ' ' But a crime of sense ? 
Give him new nerves with old experience. " 

Ed.] 

P. 123, col. 2, line 12. an aivful rose 
of dawn. [I have heard my father say 
that he "would rather know that he was 
to be lost eternally than not know that the 
whole human race was to live eternally " ; 
and when he speaks of ' ' faintly trusting 
the larger hope," he means by " the larger 
hope " that the whole human race would 
through, perhaps, ages of suffering be at 
length purified and saved, even those who 
' ' better not with time " ; so that at the 
end of this Vision we read : 

God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 

Ed.] 

P. 123. To . [First published in 

The Examiner, March 24, 1849. My 
father was indignant that Keats' wild love- 
letters should have been published ; but he 
said that he did not wish the public to think 
that this poem had been written with any 
particular reference to Letters and Literary 
Remains of Keats (published in 1848), by 
Lord Houghton. — Ed.] 

P. 124. To E. L., on his Travels in 
Greece. [First published in 1853. — Ed.] 
Edward Lear, the well-known landscape 
painter and author of Jotirnals of a Latid- 
scape Painter in Albania and Illyria, in 
Calab7'ia and in Corsica., and of the Book of 
Nonse7ise. 

P. 124. Break, break, break. [First 
published in 1842. — Ed.] This poem first 
saw the light along with the dawn in a 
Lincolnshire lane at 5 o'clock in the 
morning. 

P. 124. The Poet's Song. [First 
published in 1842. — Ed.] 

P. 125. EnT)CH Arden. [Written in a 
little summer-house in the meadow called 
Maiden's Croft looking over Freshwater 
Bay and toward the downs. First pub- 
lished in 1864. — Ed.] 

E7ioch Arden (like Ay Inters Field) is 
founded on a theme given me by the 
sculptor Woolner. I believe that his 



particular story came out of Suffolk, but 
something like the same story is told in 
Brittany and elsewhere. 

I have had several similar true stories 
sent me since I wrote Enoch Arden. 

[Of this poem there are nine German 
translations, eight French, as well as 
Italian, Dutch, Spanish, Danish, Hungarian 
and Bavarian versions. — Ed.] 

P. 125, line 7. Da?iish barrows. [Cf. 
Tithojius : 

And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
There are several on the Freshwater 
downs. — Ed.] 

P. 126, col. 2, line 9. peacock-yewtree. 
Cut in the form of a peacock. 

P. 127, col, I, line 8. A?id isles a light 
in the offing. This line was made at 
Brighton, from the islands of light on the 
sea on a day of sunshine and clouds. 

P. 130, col. 2, line 21. whitening. 
When the breeze blows, it turns upward 
the silvery under-part of the leaf. 

P. 133, col. I, line 17. 
She slipt across the summer of the world. 
The Equator. 

P. 134, col. I, line 30. dewy-glooming, 
dewy and dark. 

P. 134, col. I, line 33. in the ringing of 
his ears. (Cf. Eothen, chap, xvii.) 

Mr. Kinglake told me that he had 
heard his own parish bells in the midst of 
an Eastern desert, not knowing at the 
time that it was Sunday, when they would 
have been ringing the bells at home ; and 
added, " I might have had a ringing in my 
ears, and the imaginative memory did the 
rest. " 

[My father would say that there is 
nothing really supernatural, mechanically 
or otherwise, in Enoch Arden's hearing 
bells ; tho' he most probably did intend the 
passage to tell upon the reader mystically. 
— Ed.1 



P. 134, col. 2, line 27. sweet water. 



Cf 



Intus aquae dulces vivoque sedilia saxo. 
Virgil, Aen. \. 167. 



922 



NOTES 



P. 135, col. I, line 33. 
Last, as it seeiitd, a great mist-blotted 

light. 
From Philip's house, the latest house to 
landward. 

P. 139, col. I, line i. 

There came so loud a calling of the sea. 

" The calling of the sea," a term used, 
I believe, chiefly in the western parts of 
England, to signify a ground swell. When 
this occurs on a windless night, the echo of 
it rings thro' the timbers of old houses in 
a haven, and is often heard many miles 
inland. 

P. 139, col. I, line 8. 
Had ^seldom seen a costlier funeral. 

The costly funeral is all that poor Annie 
could do for him after he was gone. This 
is entirely introduced for her sake, and, in 
my opinion, quite necessary to the per- 
fection of the Poem and the simplicity of 
the narrative. 

P. 139. The Brook. [First published 
in 1855. — Ed.] Not the brook near 
Somersby mentioned in The Ode to 

Memory. 

P. 139, line 14. 
When all the wood stands in a mist of 
green. 

This I remember as particularly beautiful 
one spring at Park House, Kent. 

P. 39, col. 2, line 34. grigs, crickets. 

P. 140, col. I, line 18. 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam. 
The arch of the bridge over the stream, 
through which you can look. 

P. 140, col. 2, line 8. a wizard penta- 
gram. [A star-like five-pointed figure which 
was used by astrologers in the Middle Ages. 
—Ed.] 

P. 141, col. I, line 8. 
Twinkled the iufiumerahle ear a?td tail. 
This line made in the New Forest. 

P. 141, col. 2, line 20. 

/ 7nake the netted sunbeam dance. 

Long after this line was written we ^ saw 



the 



netted sunbeam ' ' dance in 
1 [My father and I.— Ed.] 



marvellous way in the Silent Pool near 
Guildford as the stream poured from the 
chalk over the green-sand. 

P, 141, col. 2, lines 33, 34. 

the dome 
Of B7'unelleschi. 
The Duomo or cathedral at Florence, 
the dome the work of Brunelleschi (1407). 

P. 142, col. I, line 4. converse-seasons 
was too sibilant in sound, so I wrote 
April-aiitumns. 

[My father said : "I hate sibilation in 
verse. Always kick the hissing geese if 
you can out of the boat." — Ed.] 

The summers in Australia are of course 
the winter-tides of Europe. 

P. 142, col. 2, lines 7, 8. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
But she — you will be welcome — O, come in I 
The Father is dead. 

P. 142. Aylmer's Field. [Written at 
Farringford, and first published in 1864. — 
Ed.] Line 3. 

Like that long-bziried body of the king. 

This happened on opening an Etruscan 
tomb at the city of Tarquinii in Italy. 
[The warrior was seen for a moment 
stretched on the couch of stone, and then 
vanished as soon as the air touched him. 
—Ed.] 

P. 142, line 17. wyvern [winged two- 
legged dragon of heraldry. — Ed.]. 

P. 143, col. 2, line 14. that islet in the 
chcstmit-bloom. [The rosy spot in the 
flower. — Ed.] 

P. 143, col. 2, line 21. 
Shone like a mystic star between the less. 
The variable star of astronomy with its 
maximums and minimums of brightness, 
e.g. /3 Persei or Algol and many others. 

P. 144, col. I, line 6, fairy footings, 
fairy rings. 

P. 144, col. I, line 10. What look'd 
a flight of fairy arrows. The seeds from 
the^ dandelion globe. Cf. Gareth and 
Lynette : 

the flower 

That blows a globe of after arrowlets. 



NOTES 



923 



P. 144, col. I, line 21. Temple-eaten 
terms. [Terms spent as a student in the 
Temple, when he has to eat so many 
dinners to keep his terms. — Ed.] 

P. 144, col. I, hne 26. The tented 
winter-field. Referring to the way in 
which the hop poles are stacked in winter. 

P. 144, col. I, line 29. hirr and bine 
refer to the hop-plant. " Burr," the rough 
cone ; "bine," the climbing stem, 

P. 145, col. I, line 3. parcel-bearded, 
partly bearded. Cf. " parcel-gilt " (Shake- 
speare, 2 Henry IV. ll. i. 94). 

P. 145, col. 2, line 9. close ecliptic, sun 
of tropics. 

P. 146, col. 2, line 13. blacksmith 
border-marriage. At Gretna Green for 
many years a blacksmith married the 
runaway couples by Scotch law. In 1856 
these marriages were made illegal. 

P. 149, col. 2, line 21. the gardens of 
that rival rose. The Temple garden 
where Somerset picked the red, Plantagenet 
the white roses. Cf. i Henry VI. ll. iv. 

P. 149, col. 2, line 24. Far purelier, 
when the city was smaller and less smoky. 

P. 149, col. 2, line 29. 
Ra7i a Malayan amuck against the times. 

"Amuck." Made an attack like those 
Malays who rush about in a frenzy and 
attack their fellow-men, yelling, "Amook." 

P. 150, col. 2, lines 3-5. 
What amulet drew her down to that old 

oak. 
So old, that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let appear the brand of John. 

In cutting down trees in Sherwood 
Forest, letters have been found in the 
heart of the trees, showing the brands of 
particular reigns — those of James I. , 
William and Mary, and one of King 
John. King John's was eighteen inches 
within the bark. 

P. 150, col. 2, line 7. The broken base. 
[The trunk of the tree was hollow and 
decayed, with only one branch in leaf. — 
Ed.] 

P. 150, col. 2, line 26. frothfiy froin 



the fescue. The fly that lives in the cuckoo 
spit on the meadow fescue, a kind of grass, 
Festuca pratensis. 

P. 151, col. 2, line 29. 
And being used to find her pastor texts. 

It is implied that she had given Averill 
the text upon which he preached. 

P. 152, col. I, line i. mock sunshine. 
A day without sun, the only faint resem- 
blance to sunshine being the bright yellow 
of the faded autumn leaves. 

P. 152, col. I, line 13. greenish glim- 
merings, greenish glass of the lancet 
windows. 

P. 152, col. 2, line 13. 

No coarse and blockish God of acreage. 
The Roman god Terminus, who presided 
over the boundaries of private properties. 

P. 152, col. 2, line 23. deathless ruler, 
the soul. 

P. 153, col. I, line 17. wasting his 
forgotten heart, lavishing his neglected 
feelings of love. 

P. 154, col. I, line 28. the twelve- 
divided concubine. Judges xix. 29. 

P. 154, col. 2, line 4. They cling 
together. He alludes to the report, 
horrible and hardly credible, that when 
the heads were taken out of the sack, two 
were sometimes found clinging together, 
one having bitten into the other in the 
momentary convulsion that followed de- 
capitation. 

P. 155, col. 2, line 20. retinue. Accent 
on the penultimate. Shakespeare and 
Milton accented this word in the same 
way. [Cf. The Princess, ill. : 
j Went forth in long retinue following up, 
and Guinevere : 

Of his and her retinue moving, they. 
Ed.] 

P. 155, col. 2, line 23. 

Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 

A chance parallel (like many others quoted 
in these notes). Cf. Persius, Sat. i. 39 : 

Nunc non e tumulo fortunataque favilla 

Nascentur violae ? 



924 



NOTES 



P. 155, col. 2, lines 30, 31. 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel 

there 
Follows the mouse. 

Original reading — 
There the thin weasel, with faint hunting 

cry 
Follows his game. 

The Duke of Argyll says of them that 
in hunting rabbits, in packs, they give a 
" faint hunting cry." 

P. 156. Sea Dreams. [First pub- 
lished in Macmillan s Magazine, January 
i860. — Ed.] The glorification of honest 
labour, whether of head or hand, no 
hasting to be rich, no bowing down to 
any idol. 

P. 156, line 4. germander eye. Blue 
like the Germander Speedwell. 

P. 156, col. 2, line 5. large air. 
Largior hie campos aether et lumine vestit 
Purpureo. Virg. Aen. vi. 640, 641. 

P. 156, col. 2, line 23. ^ipjetted. On 
Bray Head, at the end of the Island of 
Valentia, where I lay in 1848 with all the 
revolutions of Europe behind me, the 
waves appeared like ghosts playing at 
hide and seek as they leapt above the 
cliffs. This passage was not, however, 
made at that time, but later. 

P. 159, col. I, line 25. 
That all those lines of cliffs %vere cliffs no 

mo7'e. 
The ages that go on with their illumina- 
tion breaking down everything. 

P. 159, col. 2, line 8. With that szveet 
note. The great music of the World. 

P. 159, col. 2, line 13. men of stone. 
" The statues, king or saint or founder" 
on the cathedrals which the worshippers 
worshipt. 

P. 160, col. I, line 12. 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap. 

The reference is to a long dark-green 
seaweed, one of the Laminaria, called the 
"sea-furbelow," with dimpled flounce-like 
edges. Boys sometimes running along the 
sand against the wind with this seaweed in 



their hands make it flap for sport. The 
name "sea-furbelow" is not generally 
known. 

P. 160, col. 2, line 9. 

What does little birdie say. 
This song ends joyfully. Sullivan in his 
setting makes it end dolefully. 

P. 161. Lucretius. [First published 
in Macmillan' s Magazine, August 1868. 
See Jerome's addition to the Eusebian 
Chronicle under date 94 B. c. : " Titus 
Lucretius poeta nascitur qui postea 
amatorio poculo in furorem versus, cum 
aliquot libros per intervalla insaniae con • 
scripsisset, quos postea Cicero emendavit, 
propria se manu interfecit anno aetatis 
XLiv." — Ed.] 

Munro said that everything was 
Lucretian thro' this poem, and that there 
was no suggestion which he could make. 
He, however, did suggest the alteration of 
"shepherds" to "neat-herds." 

Lucretius is portrayed in this poem as 
having taken the love-philtre of Lucilia his 
wife, who imagines him cold to her from 
brooding over his philosophies. Thus a 
loving and beautiful nature — that delights 
in friends, the universe, the birds and the 
flowers — is distraught by the poison. He 
is haunted by the doubt, which from his 
affection for Epicurus, "whom he held 
divine," had long been kept in check : 

The Gods, the Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble. 
Not follow the great law ? 

He himself had always aimed at " divine 
tranquillity," and now is tortured by un- 
rest. The unrest drives him to frenzy and 
he kills himself. 

["As a masterly study of the great 
Roman sceptic," writes Andrew Lang, 
"it (the poem) is beyond praise." "No 
prose commentary on the ' De Rerum 
Natura,' however long and learned, con- 
veys so clearly as this concise study in 
verse the sense of magnificent mingled 
ruin in the mind and power of the 
Roman. ' — Ed.] 

P. 161, col. 2, line 6. I saw the ffaring 
atom-streams, etc. {De Rer. Nat. i. 999 ff. 
—Ed.] 



NOTES 



925 



P. 161, col. 2, lines 12, 13. 

as the dog 
With inward yelp. 
\^De Rer. Nat. iv. 991 ff, : 
Venantumque canes in molli saepe quiete 
Jactant crura, etc. Ed.] 

P. 161, col. 2, line 20. Heiairai, 
courtezans. 

P. 161, col. 2, line 22. mulberry-faced 
Dictator. [Sylla in his later life. Cf. 
Plutarch, Szilla, ii. 451 : 
avKCLfMivov i(x9^ SivXAas aXcpcTij} ireiraa- 

fX^VOV. 

Clough's Plutarch's Lives, vol. iii. p. 
142, " Sylla " : " The scurrilous jesters at 
Athens made the verse upon him : 
Sylla is a mulberry sprinkled over with 
meal." Ed.] 

P. 162, col. I, line 2. 
Because I would not one of thine owjt 

doves, etc. 
[De Rer. Nat. v. 1198 ff.— Ed.] 

P. 162, col. I, line 4. my nchprocemion. 
[De Rer. Nat. i. i ff.— Ed.] 

P. 162, col. I, line 16. Mavors, Mars. 
Cf. De Rer. Nat. i. 31 ff. 

P. 162, col. I, line 27. great Sicilian. 
[Empedocles. — Ed.] De Rer. Nat. i. 
729-733. See for reference to Kypris, 
Ki^TrpiSos opfXLade^cra reXeiois €v "Ki/jLheaaL, 
and elsewhere. 

P. 162, col. I, line 30. That popular 
name of thine. [Cf. De Rer. Nat. i. 2 ff. 
—Ed.] 

P. 162, col. 2, line 7. The Gods, who 
haunt. Cf. Homer, Od. iv. 566. 

P. 162, col. 2, line 20. That Gods there 
are. [Cf. De Rer. Nat. v. 146-194, 1161- 
1291. — Ed.] 

P. 162, col. 2, line 21. I prest my foot- 
steps i?ito his. [De Rer. Nat. iii. i ff. — 
Ed.] 

P. 162, col. 2, line 22. my Memmius. 
[Caius Memmius Gemellus, to whom the 
De Rerum Natura was dedicated. — Ed. ] 

P. 163, col. I, line 19. Or lend an ear 
to Plato, etc. Cf. Phaedo, vi. [" We men 
are as it were in ward, and a man ought 



not to free himself from it, or to run away. " 
—Ed.] 

P. 163, col. 2, line 30. him J proved 
impossible. [De Rer. Nat. ii. 700 ; v. 
837 ff., 878ff.— Ed.] 

P. 164, col. I, hne 18. laid along the 
grass. [Cf. De Rer. Nat. ii. 29 ff. : 
Cum tamen inter se prostrati in gramine 
molli, etc. Ed.] 

P. 164, col. I, line 22. 

Of settled, sweet, Epictirean life. 
[Cf. De Rer. Nat. iii. 66 : " Dulci vita 
stabilique. " — Ed.] 

P. 164, col. I, line 28. Or Heliconian 
honey. [Cf. De Rer. Nat. i. 936 ff. ; iv. 
II ff.— Ed.] 

P. 164, col. 2, line 5. 7iot he, who bears 
one name with her. " Her " is Lucretia. 

P. 164, col. 2, line 13. the womb and 
tomb of all. [Cf. De Rer. Nat. v. 258 : 
Omniparens eadem rerum commune sepul- 
chrum. Ed. ] 

P. 164, col. 2, lines 19, 20. 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter d into one earthquake iti ofie day, 

etc. 
[De Rer. Nat. v. 94 ff.— Ed.] 

P. 164, col. 2, line 29. Aly golden 
work, etc. [De Rer. Nat. iv. 8, 9 ff. ; iii. 
978-1023. — Ed.] 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTORY 
NOTES 

In the Prologue the "Tale from mouth 
to mouth " was a game which I have more 
than once played when I was at Trinity 
College, Cambridge, with my brother- 
undergraduates. Of course, if he "that 
inherited the tale " had not attended very 
carefully to his predecessors, there were 
contradictions ; and if the story were his- 
torical, occasional anachronisms. 

In defence of what some have called the 
too poetical passages, it should be recol- 
lected that the poet of the party was 
requested to " dress the tale up poetically," 



926 



NOTES 



and he was full of the ' ' gallant and heroic 
chronicle." A parable is perhaps the 
teacher that can most surely enter in at 
all doors. 

In 185 1 the "weird seizures" of the 
Prince were inserted. Moreover, the words 
" dream -shadow," "were and were not" 
doubtless refer to the anachronisms and 
improbabilities of the story. Compare 
the Prologue : 

Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream, 
and p. 203, col. i, line 11 : 
And like a flash the weird affection came : 

I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream. 

It maybe remarked that there is scarcely 
anything in the story which is not prophetic- 
ally glanced at in the Prologue. 

The child is the link thro' the parts, as 
shown in the Songs (inserted 1850), which 
are the best interpreters of the poem. 

Some of my remarks on passages in The 
Princess have been published by Dawson 
of Canada (1885), who copied them from 
the following letter which I wrote to him 
criticising his edition of The Pj-incess. 

I thank you for your able and thoughtful essay 
on The Princess. You have seen amongst 
other things that if women ever were to play such 
freaks, the burlesque and the tragic might go 
hand in hand. . . . Your explanatory notes are 
very much to the purpose, and I do not object to 
your finding parallelisms. They must always 
occur. A man (a Chinese scholar) some time ago 
wrote to me saying that in an unknown, untrans- 
lated Chinese poem there were two whole lines ^ 
of mine almost word for word. Why not ? Are 
not human eyes all over the world looking at the 
same objects, and must there not consequently be 
coincidences of thought and impressions and ex- 
pressions? It is scarcely possible for any one to 
say or write anything in this late time of the 
world to which, in the rest of the literature of the 
world, a parallel could not somewhere be found. 
But when you say that this passage or that was 
suggested by Wordsworth or Shelley or another. 
I demur ; and more. I wholly disagree. There 
was a period in my life when, as an artist, Turner 
for instance, takes rough sketches of landskip, 
etc., in order to work them eventually into some 
great picture, so Lwas in the habit of chronicling, 
in four or five words or more, whatever might 
strike me as picturesque in Nature. I never put 

1 The Peak is high, and the stars are high, 
And the thought of a man is higher. 

The l^oice a7td the Peak. 



these down, and many and many a line has gone 

away on the north wind, but some remain : e.g. 

A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight. 

Suggestion. 

The sea one night at Torquay, when Torquay 

was the most lovely sea-village in England, the' 

now a smoky town. The sky was covered with 

thin vapour, and the moon behind it. 

A great black cloud 
Drags inward from the deep. 

Suggestion. 
A coming storm seen from the top of Snowdon. 

In the Idylls of the King. 

With all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies. 

Suggestion. 
A storm which came upon us in the middle of 
the North Sea. 

As the water-lily staj-ts and slides. 

Suggestion. 
Water-lilies in my own pond, seen on a gusty 
day with my own eyes. They did start and 
slide in the sudden puffs of wind till caught and 
stayed by the tether of their own stalks, quite as 
true as Wordsworth's simile and more in detail. 

A zvild 7vind shook, — 

Follow, folloiv, thou shall 7vin. 

Suggestion. 

I was walking in the New Forest. A wind did 
arise and 

Shake the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks 

Of the wild woods together. 

The wind I believe was a west wind, but 
because I wished the Prince to go south, I turned 
the wind to the south, and naturally the wind said 
"follow." I believe the resemblance which you 
note is just a chance one. Shelley's lines are not 
familiar to me, tho' of course, if they occur in the 
Prometheus^ I must have read them. I could 
multiply instances, but I will not bore you, and 
far indeed am I from asserting that books as well 
as Nature are not, and ought not to be, suggestive 
to the poet. I am sure that I m.yself, and many 
others, find a peculiar charm in those passages of 
such great masters as Virgil or Milton where they 
adopt the creation of a bygone poet, and reclothe 
it, more or less, according to their own fancy. 
But there is, I fear, a prosaic set growing up 
among us, editors of booklets, book-worms, index- 
hunters, or men of great memories and no 
imagination, who itnpute themselves to the poet, 
and so believe that Jie, too, has no imagination, 
but is for ever poking his nose between the pages 
of some old volume in order to see what he can 
appropriate. They will not allow one to say 
"Ring the bell" without finding that we have 
taken it from Sir P. Sidney, or even to use such 
a simple expression as the ocean " roars," without 
finding out the precise verse in Homer or 
Horace from which we have plagiarised it (fact). 

^ A wind arose among the pines, etc. 



NOTES 



927 



I have known an old fish-wife, who had lost 
two sons at sea, clench her fist at the advancing 
tide on a stormy day, and cry out, "Ay! roar, 
do ! how I hates to see thee show thy white 
teeth." Now if I had adopted her exclamation 
and put it into the mouth of some old woman in 
one of my poems, I daresay the critics would have 
thought it original enough, but would most likely 
have advised me to go to Nature for my old 
women and not to my own imagination ; 1 and 
indeed it is a strong figure. 

Here is another anecdote about suggestion. 
When I was about twenty or twenty-one I went 
on a tour to the Pyrenees. Lying among these 
mountains before a waterfall 2 that comes down 
one thousand or twelve hundred feet I sketched 
it (according to my custom then) in these words : 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn. 

When I printed this, a critic informed me that 
" lawn " was the materia.1 used in theatres to 
imitate a waterfall, and graciously added, " Mr. 
T. should not go to the boards of a theatre but to 
Nature herself for his suggestions." And I had 
gone to Nature herself. 

I think it is a moot point whether, if I had 
known how that effect was produced on the stage, 
I should have ventured to publish the line. 

I find that I have written, quite contrary to my 
custom, a letter, when I had merely intended to 
thank you for your interesting commentary. 

Thanking you again for it, I beg you to believe 

""^ Very faithfully yours, 

A. Tennyson. 

Before the first edition came out, I 
deliberated with myself whether I should 
put songs between the separate divisions of 
the poem ; again I thought that the poem 
would explain itself, but the public did not 
see the drift. 

The first song I wrote was named " The 
Losing of the Child." 

The child was sitting on the bank 

Upon a stormy day. 
He loved the river's roaring sound ; 
The river rose and burst his bound, 
Flooded fifty leagues around, 
Took the child from off the ground, 

And bore the child away. 

O the child so meek and wise, 

Who made us wise and mild ! 

All was strife at home about him. 

Nothing could be done without him ; 

Father, mother, sister, brother, 

All accusing one another ; 
O to lose the child ! 

^ He used to compare with this the Norfolk 
saying which we heard when we were staying 
with the Rev. C. T.^ Digby at Warham : "The 
sea's a-moanin' ; she's lost the wind." 

'■^ In the Cirque de Gavarnie. 



The river left the child unhui't. 

But far within the wild. 
Then we brought him home again, 
Peace and order come again. 
The river sought his bound again, 
The child was lost and found again, 

And we will keep the child. 

Another old song of mine I intended 
to insert was that of ' ' The Doctor's 
Daughter" : 

Sweet Kitty Sandilands, 

The daughter of the doctor, 

We drest her in the Proctor's bands, 
And past her for the Proctor. 

All the men ran from her 

That would have hasten'd to her. 

All the men ran from her 

That would have come to woo her. 

Up the street we took her 

As far as to the Castle, 
Jauntily sat the Proctor's cap 

And from it hung the tassel. 

"Sir Ralph" is another song which 1 
omitted : 

Ralph would fight in Edith's sight, 

For Ralph was Edith's lover, 
Ralph went down like a fire to the fight. 
Struck to the left and struck to the right, 

Roll'd them over and over. 
" Gallant Sir Ralph," said the king. 

Casques were crack 'd and hauberks hack'd, 

Lances snapt in sunder. 
Rang the stroke and sprang the blood, 
Knights were thwack'd and riven, and 
hew'd 

Like broad oaks with thunder. 
"O what an arm," said the king. 

Edith bow'd her stately head, 

Saw them lie confounded, 
Edith Montfort bow'd her head, 
Crown'd her knight's, and flush'd as red 

As poppies when she crown'd it. 
" Take her. Sir Ralph," said the king. 

So Lilia sang. I thought she was possess'd 
She struck such warbling fire into the notes. 

[Charles Kingsley writes in Fraser s 
Magazine, September 1850 : — 

' ' At the end of the first canto, fresh from 
the description of the female college, with 



928 



NOTES 



its professoresses and hostleresses, and 
other Utopian monsters, we turn the page, 
and — 

As through the land at eve we went, 

O there above the httle grave 
We kiss'd again with tears. 

Between the next two cantos intervenes 
the well-known cradle-song, perhaps the 
best of all ; and at the next interval is the 
equally well-known bugle-song, the idea 
of which is that of twin-labour and twin- 
fame in a pair of lovers. In the next the 
memory of wife and child inspirits the 
soldier on the field ; in the next the sight 
of the fallen hero's child opens the sluices 
of his widow's tears ; and in the last 
( ' Ask me no more ') the poet has succeeded 
in superadding a new form of emotion to 
a canto in which he seemed to have ex- 
hausted every resource of pathos which his 
subject allowed," — Ed.] 



P, 165. The Princess ; a Medley, 
Published in 1847, Dedicated to Henry 
Lushington in 1848. 

[Dawson of Canada, who edited The 
Pri?tcess, and to whom my father wrote as 
Stated above, says: "At the time of the 
publication of The Princess the surface- 
thought of England was intent solely upon 
Irish famines, corn-laws and free-trade. 
It was only after many years that it became 
conscious of anything being wrong in the 
position of women, , . . No doubt such 
ideas were at the time 'in the air ' in 
England, but the dominant, practical 
Philistinism scoffed at them as ' ideas ' 
banished to America, that refuge for 
exploded European absurdities. I believe 
the Vindicaiion of the Pights of Woman, 
by Mary Wollstonecraft (1792), first turned 
the attention of the people of England to 
the ' wrongs of women, ' " 

The plan of The Princess may have 
suggested itself when the project of a 
Women's College was in my father's mind 
(1839), or it may have arisen in its mock- 
heroic form from a Cambridge joke, such 
as he commemorated in the lines, "The 
Doctor's Daughter," See above, p, 927. 
—Ed.] 



The Prologue 

The Prologue was written about a feast 
of the Mechanics' Institute held in the 
Lushingtons" grounds at Park House, near 
Maidstone, 6th July 1842. 

P, 165, col, 2, line i, calumets. Long- 
fellow sent me one of these pipes of peace, 
which belonged to a Red Indian chief, 

P, 167, col, I, line 18, A7id he had 
breathed the Proctor's dogs. Made the 
proctor's attendants out of breath. 

P. 167, col. 2, line 18. Emperor-moths, 

Saturnia Carpini. 

Canto I 

P, 169, col. 2, line 8. Galen, the great 
doctor of Pergamus, A.D, 131 to 200. 

P, 169, col, 2, line 22, 

Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf. 

The proxy of the king used to place his 
bare leg under the coverlet of the king's 
betrothed, 

[Bacon in his Henry VII. writes of the 
proxy marriage of Maximilian, the king of 
the Romans, with Anne of Brittany, 1489 : 

"For she was not only publicly con- 
tracted, but stated as a bride, and solemnly 
bedded ; and after she was laid, there came 
in Maximilian's ambassador, with letters of 
procuration, and in the presence of sundry 
noble personages, men and women, put 
his leg, stript naked to the knee, between 
the espousal sheets ; to the end that the 
ceremony might be thought to amount to 
a consummation and actual knowledge, " 
—Ed.] 

P. 170, col, 2, lines 22-24, 
A wind arose and rush! d upon the South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and the 

shrieks 
Of the wild woods together. . 

See letter to Dawson, p, 926, 

P. 171, col. I, line 4. blowing bosks, 
blossoming thickets. 

P. 171, col. 2, line 17, Her brethreri, — 
accusative after ' ' see. ' ' 

P. 171, col. 2, line 34, the liberties. 
[Blackstone in his Commentayies, ii, 37, 
defines a " liberty" as a " Royal privilege 



NOTES 



929 



or branch of the King's prerogative, sub- 
sisting in the hands of a subject," The 
term " Hberties " is here applied to the 
estate over which the privilege can be 
exercised. — Ed.] 

P. 173, col. I, line 13. A pill sea glazed 
with muffled moonlight. See letter to 
Dawson, p. 926. 

Canto II 

P. 174, col. I, line 25. Sleek Odalisques, 
female slaves of the harem. 

P. 174, col. I, lines 26, 27. 

but she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule. 

The \\ood-nymph Egeria, who was said 
to have given the laws to Numa Pompilius. 

[" And in all that he did, he knew that 
he should please the gods ; for he did 
everything by the direction of the nymph 
Egeria, who honoured him so much that 
she took him to be her husband, and 
taught him in her sacred grove, by the 
spring that welled out from the rock, all 
that he was to do towards the gods and 
towards men. ' ' Arnold's History of Rome, 
vol. i. ch. i. ; Livy, i. 19 ; Ovid, Fasti, 
iii. 276. — Ed.] 

P. 174, col. I, line 28, 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall. 
Semiramis. [Diodorus, ii. viii. — Ed,] 

P. 174, col. I, Hne 29. 

The Carian Artetnisia strong ifi war. 

She who fought so bravely for Xerxes at 
Salamis that he said that his women had 
become men and his men women. [Herod, 
viii. 88 : 'iE^^p^rjv 5^ elirai Xeyerat irpbs ra 
(f>pa^6/j.€ua' 01 fxeu &v5pes yeybvaal /jloi 
yvvaiKes, at 8e yvvauKes &v8pes. — Ed. ] 

P. 174, col. I, line 30. 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid. 

A celebrated Greek courtesan of Thracian 
origin, who was said to have built a 
pyramid near Memphis. .^lian relates 
that she married Psammetichus, King of 
Egypt. 
" A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear 

Than Rhodope's or Memphis' ever was. " 
I Henry VI, I. vi. 22. 



Doricha was probably her real name (she 
is so called by Sappho), and she perhaps 
received that of Rhodopis, ' ' rosy-cheeked , ' ' 
on account of her beauty. 

P. 174, col. 1, line 31. Clelia, who 
swam the Tiber in escaping from Porsenna's 
camp (Livy, ii. 13). 

P. 174, col. I, line 31. Cornelia, 
mother of the Gracchi, 

P. 174, col. I, Hne 31. Palmyre?ie. 
Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra. [See Gibbon, 
ch, xi, sub anno A. D. 272. — Ed,] 

P, 174, col. 2, line 2, Agrippina, 
grand-daughter of Augustus, married to 
Germanicus, 

P, 174, col. 2, line 25. headed like a 
star, with bright golden hair. [Cf //. vi, 
401 : oXiyKLOv aaTipi KoXip. — Ed.] 

P. 174, col. 2, lines 28, 29. 

but no livelier than the dame 
That whisper' d 'Asses' ears.' 

Midas in The Wyf of Bathe's Tale con- 
fides the secret of his hairy asses' ears only 
to his wife. 

[The good dame could not resist telling 
it to a neighbouring " mareys " in a 
whisper. 

And as a bitore bombleth in the myre 
She leyde hir mouth unto the water doun : 
' Biwreye me nat, thou water, with thy 

soun,' 
Quod she, ' to thee I telle it and namo, — 
Myn housbonde hath longe asses erys two, ' 

Ed.] 

P. 174, col. 2, line 32. 
This world was once a fluid haze of light, 

etc. 
The nebular theory as formulated by 
Laplace. [Cf. In Memoriam, cxviii. iii. ; 
Lxxxix. xii. — Ed.] 

P. 175, col. I, line 9. Appraised the 
Lycian custom. Herodotus (i. 173) says 
that the Lycians took their names from 
their mothers instead of their fathers. 

P. 175, col. I, hne 10. \Lar ox Lars, 
as in Lars Porsena, signifies noble. — Ed.] 

P. 175, col. I, line 10. Lucumo is an 
Etruscan prince or priest. 

30 



930 



NOTES 



P. 175, col, I, line 14. Salique. The 
laws of the Salian Franks forbad inherit- 
ance by women. 

P. 175, col. I, lines 15, 16. touch'd . . . 
confetnpf. Had she heard that, according 
to the Mohammedan doctrine, hell was 
chiefly occupied by women ? 

P. 175, col. 2, line 2, if more was 
more. Greater in size meant greater in 
power, 

P. 176, col. 2, line 25. As he bestrode viy 
Grandsire. In defence. [Cf. Shakespeare, 
I Henry IV. V, i. 122, and Comedy of 
Errors, V. i. 192: "When I bestrid thee 
in the wars." — Ed,] 

P, 177, col. 2, line 2. 

The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Who condemned his sons to death for 
conspiracy against the city (Livy, ii. 5). 

P. 178, col, I, line 9, 

That clad her like an April daffodilly. 

The Quarterly Review objected to 
" Apfil daffodilly." Daffodils in the 
North of England belong as much to 
April as to March. ^ On the 15th of April 
in the streets of Dublin I remember a man 
presenting me with a handful of daffodils ; 
and in 1887 at Farringford I saw daffodils 
still in bloom in May. 

P. 178, col. I, line 12. As bottom 
agates, etc. It has been said that I took 
this simile partly from Beaumont and 
Fletcher, partly from Shakespeare, whereas 
I made it while I was bathing in Wales. 

P. 179, col. 2, line 25. 
The long hall glitter d like a bed of flowers. 

Lady Psyche's "side" (pupils) wore 
lilac robes, and Lady Blanche's robes of 
daffodil colour, 

P, 179, col. 2, line 29. Astrcean. 
Astraea, daughter of Zeus and Themis, is 
to come back first of the celestials on the 
return of the Golden Age [even as she was 
the last to leave earth in the Age of Iron : 
Victa jacet pietas, et virgo caede madentes 
Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit. 

Ov. Met. \. 150.— Ed.] 

1 March the poet calls " the roaring moon of 
daffodil and crocus " in his Prefatory Sonnet to 
the ^'Nineteenth Century, 



Canto III 

P. 181, col. 2, line 25. Consonant . . . 
note. If two stringed instruments are 
together, and a note is struck on one, the 
other will vibrate with the same harmony. 

P. 182, col. I, line 17. The Samian 
Here. The Greek Here, whose favourite 
abode was Samos. 

P, 182, col. I, Hne 18. 
A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun. 
The statue in Egypt which gave forth a 
musical note when "smitten with the 
morning sun." 

[Cf. Pausanias i. 42 and The Palace of 
Art: 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, 

drew 
Rivers of melodies. Ed. ] 

P, 183, col, I, line 12, ran up his 
furrowy forks. The early editions have 
' ' dark-blue forks " or peaks, 

P. 184, col. I, line 7. 
'Alas your Highness breathes full East' 

I said. 
A playful reference to the cold manher of 
an Eastern queen and the east wind. 

P. 184, col. 2, line 10. pou sto. 56s irov 
(ttQ} Kal Kbajxov KLPrjcru) ( ' ' Give me where 
I may stand and I will move the world "), 
an often -quoted saying of Archimedes. 

P. 184, col. 2, line 26. gynceceum, 
women's quarters in a Greek house. 

P. 185, col. I, line 9. shook the woods. 
They shook in the wind made by the 
cataract. 

P. 185, col. I, line 19. Diotima. Said 
to have been an instructress of Socrates. 
She was a priestess of Mantinea. (Cf. 
Plato's Sympositim. ) 

P, 185, col, I, line 28. 
And cram him with the fragments of the 

grave. 
See Hogarth's picture in the "Stages of 
Cruelty." It was asserted that they used 
to give dogs the remnants of the dissecting- 
room. 

P. 185, col. 2, line 28, Elysian lawns 
are the lawns of Elysium and have nothing 
to do with Troy, as some critics explain, 



NOTES 



931 



or perhaps they refer to the Islands of the 
Blest. Cf. Pindar, Olympia, ii. 128. 

P. 186, col. I, line 3. Corinna. She is 
the Boeotian poetess who is said to have 
triumphed over Pindar in poetical com- 
petition (Pausanias, ix. 22). The Princess 
probably exaggerates. 

Canto IV 

The opening song was written after 
hearing the echoes at Killarney in 1848. 
When I was there I heard a bugle blown 
beneath the "Eagle's Nest," and eight 
distinct echoes. 

P. 186, col. 2, line i. 
There sinks the Jiebulous star we call the 

Sun. 
Norman Lockyer says that this is a true 
description of the sun. 

P. 186, col. 2, line 21. 
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
mean. 

This song came to me on the yellowing 
autumn-tide at Tintern Abbey, full for me 
of its bygone memories. It is the sense of 
the abiding in the transient. 

[My father thought that his brother 
Charles Tennyson Turner's sonnet "Time 
and Twihght " had the same sort of mystic 
ddmonisch feeling, " the Passion of the 
Past." 

TIME AND TWILIGHT 

In the dark twilight of an autumn morn 
I stood within a little country-town, 
Wherefrom a long acquainted path went 

down 
To the dear village haunts where I was born ; 
The low of oxen on the rainy wind, 
Death and the Past, came up the well- 
known road, 
And bathed my heart with tears, but stirred 

my mind 
To tread once more the track so long 

untrod ; 
But I was warned, " Regrets which are not 

thrust 
Upon thee, seek not ; for this sobbing 

breeze 
Will but unman thee : thou art bold to 

trust 



Thy woe-worn thoughts among these roar- 
ing trees. 

And gleams of by-gone playgrounds. Is't 
no crime 

To rush by night into the arms of Time? " 

Ed.] 

P. 187, col. I, line 24. rough kex, 
hemlock. [Cf. "kecksies," Heiiry V, V. 
ii. 52. — Ed.] 

P. 187, col. I, lines 25, 26. 

beard-blown goat 
Hang 071 the shaft. 
The wind blew his beard on the height of 
the ruined pillar. 

[ Wild Jigtree split, etc. Cf. Juvenal, 
X. 145.— Ed.] 

P. 187, col. 2, lines 34, 35. 
Like the Ithacetisian suitors in old time, 
. . , laugh' d with alien lips. 
[Cf. Odyssey, xx. 347 : 
ol 5' ^St; 'yvadixolai yeXduv dX\oTpioi<nv. 

Ed.] 

P. 188, col. I, line 3. meadow-crake, 
corn-crake or landrail. 

P. 188, col. I, line 18. Valkyrian hymns. 
[Like those sung by the Valkyrian maidens, 
' ' the choosers of the slain, ' ' in the Northern 
mythology. — Ed. ] 

P. 189, col. I, line 16. Caryatids, 
"female figures used as bearing shafts" 
(Vitruv. i. ), e.g. the maidens supporting 
the light entablature of the portico of the 
Erechtheum at Athens. 

P. 189, col. I, lines 18, 19. 

Of open-work in tvhich the hunter rued 

His rash intrusion. 
Actseon turned into a stag for looking on 
Diana bathing. 

P. 190, col. I, lines 8, 9. 
But as the waterlily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind. 
Waterlilies in my own pond, and seen by 
me on a gusty day. They started and slid 
in the sudden puffs of wind till caught and 
stayed by the tether of their own stalks. 
(See supra, letter to Dawson. ) 

P. 190, col. I, line 19. 

Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not. 



932 



NOTES 



When I was in a friend's garden in 
Yorkshire, I heard a nightingale singing 
with such a frenzy of passion that it was 
unconscious of everything else, and not 
frightened though I came and stood quite 
close beside it. I saw its eye flashing and 
felt the air bubble in my ear through the 
vibration. 

P, 190, col. I, line 22. Mfiemosyne, 
goddess of memory, mother of the Muses. 

P. 190, col. I, line 27. mystic fire, St. 
Elmo's fire. 

[St. Elmo's phosphorescent light flickers 
on the tops of masts when a storm is 
brewing. Cf. Tempest, I. ii. 197, and 
Longfellow's Golden Legend : 
" Last night I saw St. Elmo's stars, 
With their glimmering lanterns all at 

play. 
On the tops of the masts, and the tips of 

the spars, 
And I knew we should have foul weather 
to-day." Ed.] 

P. 190, col. I, line 32. blowzed, blown-red. 
P. 191, col. I, line 12. 
A lid less watcher of the public weal. 
Lidless = wakeful, wide-eyed. 

P. 191, col. 2, line 27. A Niobean 
daughter. Niobe was proud of her twelve 
children, and in consequence boasted her- 
self as superior to Leto, mother of Apollo 
and Artemis, who in revenge shot them all 
dead. 

P. 192, col. I, lines 9, 10. 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the 

rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 
heavejis. 

I remember seeing thirty ricks burning 
n-^ar Cambridge, and I helped to pass the 
bucket from the well to help to quench the 
fire. [Cf. To Mary Boyle, verse vii. and 
verse x. — Ed.] 

P. 193, col. I, line 4. dwarfs of presage. 
[Afterwards seen to be far short of ex- 
pectation. — Ed.] 

P. 193, col. 2, lines i6-i8. 

Fixt like a beacon-tower above the zvaves 

Of tempest, when the crifnson-rol ling eye 

Glares ruin, etc. 



[Cf. Enoch Arden : 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

Ed.] 

P. 195. Song beginning 

Thy voice is heard thro rolling drums. 

Cf. Sedgwick s Life, ii. 103. — Extract of 
a letter from J. Eaton, a private serving in 
the Battle of Aliwal, 1846, and a son of 
two of Sedgwick's servants : 

"Also, my dear mother, tell Rhoda 
Harding I thought of her in the battle's 
heat, and that as I cut at the enemy and 
parried their thrusts my arm was strong on 
her account ; for I felt at that moment that 
I loved her more than ever, and may God 
Almighty bless her." 

Sedgwick's comment : ' ' This is, I think, 
exquisitely beautiful, for it is the strong 
language of pure feeling in the hour of 
severest trial." 

My first version of this song was pub- 
lished in Selections, 1865 : 

Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands ; 
Now thy face across his fancy comes 
And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow, 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 
Now their warrior father meets the foe 
And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

Canto V 

P. 195, line 6. glimmering lanes refers 
to the lines of tents just visible in the dark- 
ness. 

P. 196, col. I, line 4. mawkin, kitchen- 
wench. [Cf. "malkin," Coriolanus, 11. i. 
224. — Ed.] 

P. 197, col. 2, line 29. mammoth bulk' d 
in ice, bulky mammoth buried in ice. 

P. 199, col. 2, line 11. the airy Giant's 
zone, the stars in the belt of Orion. 

P. 199, col. 2, line 15, morions [steel 
helmets (Spanish, morrion). — Ed.]. 

P. 200, col. I, line 14. 
Her that talk'd down the fifty^ wisest men. 
St. Catherine of Alexandria, niece of 



NOTES 



933 



Constantine the Great. [The Emperor 
Maxentius during his persecution is related 
to have sent fifty of his wisest men to con- 
vert her from Christianity, but she com- 
bated and confuted them all. — Ed.] 

P. 20I, col. I, lines 6, 7. 

and standing like a stately Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag. 

Taken from a torrent above Cauteretz. 
[Cf. Remains of Arthur Hugh Clojigh, 
Sept. 7, 1861, p. 269: "Cauterets, 
September J. — I have been out for a walk 
with A. T. to a sort of island between 
two waterfalls, with pines on it, of which 
he retained a recollection from his visit 
thirty-one years ago, and which, moreover, 
furnished a simile to The Princess. He 
is very fond of the place evidently, as it is 
more in the mountains than any other, 
and so far superior." In 1875 he took me 
to this same island and talked of Arthur 
Hallam and Clough. — Ed.] 

P. 201, col. I, line 25. Tomyris, queen 
of the Massagetce, who cut off the head of 
Cyrus the Great after defeating him, and 
dipped it in a skin which she had filled 
with blood and bade him, as he was in- 
satiate of blood, to drink his fill, gorge 
himself with blood. [Cf. Herod, i. 212: 
^ ix^v ere iyCj Kal AttXtjcttov iSura atijuros 
Kope(X(j3. And of this threat she reminds 
the dead body of Cyrus after his victory : 
Si) ix€v ifji^ l^ibovcrdv re Kal VLKiovcdv at 
fj-dxil cLiribXeaas iralSa t6v eixhv k\wv 56Xw, 
crk 8' iyd), Kardwep -qire'CKricra, al'yuaros 
Kopeaui. — Ed. ] 

P. 201, col. 2, line 5. 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a 

scourge. 
An old Russian custom. [See Hakluyt's 
Navigations, 1599- 1600. — Ed.] 

P. 201, col. 2, lines 6, 7. 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots. 
Suttee in India. 

P. 201, col. 2, lines 8, 9. 

Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running 

The " flood " is the Ganges. 



P, 203, col. 2, lines 25-29. 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 

. . . till it strikes 
0?i a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits. 
And twists the grain. 

Taken from the havoc worked by a storm 
in Tunby wood near Horncastle. One oak 
was wrapped round with bands of what 
looked like list, the strips of its bark turned 
inside out. Two concentric circles of trees 
were thrown down with their heads in- 
ward. 

Canto VI 

P. 204. Home they brought her warrior 
dead. I published this version of the song 
in the Selections, 1865 : 
Home they brought him slain with spears, 

They brought him home at even-fall ; 
All alone she sits and hears 

Echoes in his empty Hall, 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield, 

Oh hush my joy, my sorrow. 

P. 204, col. 2, line 11. 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. 
Cf. Judges iv. 4 and following. 

P. 205, col. I, lines 23, 24. 
And over them the tremulous isles of light 
Slided. 

Spots of sunshine coming through the 
leaves, and seeming to slide from one to 
the other, as the procession of girls 
' ' moves under shade. ' ' 

P. 206, col. I, line 15. brede, em- 
broidery. 

P. 207, col. I, line 4. port, for haven. 
Misprinted " part " in earlier editions, 

P. 207, col. I, line 24. dead prime, 
earliest dawn. 

P. 208, col. I, line 19. [The azimuth 
of any point on a horizontal plane is the 
angle between a line drawn to that point, 
and a fixed line in the horizontal plane, 
usually chosen to be a line drawn due 



934 



NOTES 



North. (Arab, al, the, and samt, way, 
quarter.) — Ed.] 

P. 208, col. I, hne 26. like the vermin 
in a nut. The worm eats a nut and leaves 
behind but dry and bitter dust. 

P. 209, col, 2, line 7. answer d full of 
grief and scorn. After this line, these 
among other lines have been omitted : 
Go help the half-brain'd dwarf, Society, 
To find low motives unto noble deeds, 
To fix all doubt upon the darker side ; 
Go fitter thou for narrower neighbourhoods, 
Old talker, haunt where gossip breeds and 

seethes 
And festers in provincial sloth ! and you 
That think we sought to practise on a life 
Risked for our own, and trusted to our 

hands. 
What say you. Sir? you hear us ; deem 

ye not 
'Tis all too like that even now we scheme, 
In one broad death confounding friend 

and foe, 
To drug them all ? revolve it ; you are man, 
And therefore no doubt wise ; but after this 
We brook no further insult but are gone. 

Canto VII 

P. 210, col. 2, line 30 top. 211, col. i, 

line I. 

Afid she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 

O'er land and main, and sees a great black 

cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of 

night. 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore, 
And suck the blindiiig splendour from the 

sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by 

tarn 
Expunge the world. 

An approaching storm seen from the 
summit of Snowdon. 

P. 211, col. 2, line 4. obtain d, prevailed. 

P. 212, col. I, line 25. Oppian law. 
When Hannibal was nearing Rome a law 
was carried by C. Oppius, Trib. Pleb. , 
215 B.C., forbidding women to wear more 
than half an ounce of gold, or brilliant 
dresses, and no woman was to come within 
a mile of Rome or of any town save on 



account of public sacrifices in a conveyance 
drawn by horses. [In 195 B.C. the Oppian 
Law was, in spite of Cato's protests, re- 
pealed. Livy, xxxiv. 8. — Ed.] 

P. 212, col. I, line 28. Hortensia. 
[She pleaded against the proposed tax on 
Roman matrons after the assassination of 
Julius Caesar which was to be raised in 
order to pay for the expenses of the war 
against Brutus and Cassius. Val. Max. 
VIII. iii. § 3 ; Quint, i. i. § 6 ; Appian, 
B.C. iv. 32.— Ed.] 

P. 212, col. 2, lines 24-26. 
Leapt fiery Passion from the bri?iks of 

death ; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida s at the lips. 

This used to run : 
Crown' d passion from the brinks of death, 

and up 
Along the shuddering senses struck the 

soul 
And closed on fire with Ida's at the lips. 

P. 212, col. 2, lines 30, 31. 
And left her woman, lovelier iti her mood 
Than in her motild that other. 

Aphrodite passed before his brain, 
drowsy with weakness. (Cf. Hesiod, 
Theog. 1 90- 19 1. ) 

P. 213, col. I, lines 19, 20. 

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy lieaH lies open unto me. 

Zeus came down to Danae when shut up 
in the tower in a shower of golden stars. 

P. 213, col, I, line 29. Come down, O 
maid, is said to be taken from Theocritus, 
but there is no real likeness except perhaps 
in the Greek Idyllic feeling. 

[For simple rhythm and vowel music 
my father considered this Idyllic song, 
written in Switzerland — chiefly at Lauter- 
brunnen and Grindelwald — and descriptive 
of the waste Alpine heights and gorges 
and of the sweet rich valleys below, as 
among his most successful work. — Ed. ] 

P. 213, col. 2, Hne 4. 7ior cares to walk. 
[Cf. Hamlet, I. i. 167. — Ed.] 

P. 213, col. 2, line 5. Death and 
Morning. Death is the lifelessness on the 
high snow peaks. 



NOTES 



935 



p. 213, col. 2, line 9. dusky doors. 
The opening of the gorge is called dusky 
as a contrast with the snows all about. 

P. 213, col. 2, line 22. ynoan of doves. 
Nee gemere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. 
Virgil, Eel. i. 59. 
P. 214, col. I, line 24. 
Stays all the fair youtig platiet in her 

hands. 
[Cf. Ross Wallace's lines : 

' ' The hand that rocks the cradle 

Is the hand that rules the world." 
Ed.] 
P. 215, col. 2, Hne 2, 
From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes. 
Next line : 

Or some mysterious or magnetic touch, 
was omitted. 

P. 215, col. 2, lines 10, 11. 

my doubts are dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows. 
You have become a real woman to me. 
[The realization of her womanhood was 
the magic touch which gave her reality 
and dispelled his haunting sense of the 
unreahty of things. — Ed.] 

P. 215, col. 2, line 15. Approach arid 
fear not. [Spoken in answer to Ida's 

' I have heard 
Of your strange doubts : they well might 

be : I seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 
You cannot love me. ' 

The Prince had replied directly to these 
words : 

' lift thine eyes ; my doubts are dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows ' : 

and following out the train of thought, 
appeals to her to let her nature strike on 
his 

' Like yonder morning on the blind half- 
world. ' 
It must be remembered that the Prince had 
overheard Ida's self-accusings and excus- 
ings (p. 213) : 

but she still were loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to one 
That wholly scorn'd, etc. 

Ed.] 



Conclusion 

This has been a good deal altered from 
the first version. 

P. 216, col. 2, line 3. ' Yozc — tell us 
zvhat we are.' After this it ran : 

who there began 
A treatise growing with it, and might have 

flow'd 
In axiom worthier to be graven on rock 
Than all that lasts of old world hieroglyph. 
Or lichen-fretted Rune and arrowhead ! 
But that there rose a shout ; the gates were 

closed 
At sundown, and the crowd were swarming 

now. 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 
And 1 and some w^ent out, and mingled 

with them. 
These lines were omitted, and the forty- 
six lines (pp. 216, 217), who anight have 
told X.O garden rails, were inserted, written 
just after the disturbances in France, 
February 1848, when Louis Philippe was 
compelled to abdicate. 

P. 217, col. I, line 26. 

No little lily-handed Barofiet he. 
An imaginary character. 

P. 217, col. I, line 29. pitie, pine-apple. 

P. 218. Ode on the Death of the 
Duke of Wellington. [Written at 
Twickenham, and first published on the 
day of the funeral, November 18, 1852. 
Many of the alterations which appeared in 
the second edition of this poem were in 
the original MS. — Ed.] 

I saw the funeral procession from 
Somerset House, and afterwards read an 
account of the burial in St. Paul's and 
added a few lines to the original. 

P. 218, line 9. 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 

[One day in 1842 Edward FitzGerald 
records a visit to St. Paul's with my 
father, when he said, " Merely as an 
enclosed space in a huge city this is very 
fine" ; and when they went out into the 
" central roar," " This is the mind ; that 
a mood of it." — Ed.] 

P. 218, line 20. 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 



936 



NOTES 



The first version was : 

Our sorrow draws but on the golden Past. 

P. 2i8, col. 2, line 7. four-square. Cf. 
TeTpdywvQs (Simonides), though I did not 
think of this parallel when I wrote it. 

[The word four-square is found in 
Malory, I. iii. : "There was sene in the 
chirchyard, against the hyghe aulter a grete 
stone four-square." — Ed.] 

P. 218, col. 2, line 24. 

Bright let it be with its blazon' d deeds. 
Wellington's victories were inscribed in 
gold letters on the car. 

P. 219, col. I, lines 7-9. Who . . . 
rest f These three lines are spoken by the 
"mighty seaman," Nelson, who lies in 
St. Paul's. 

P. 219, col. I, line 26. 

Against the myriads of Assay e. 

His first victory was in Hindostan, near 
this small town, where he defeated the 
Mahratta army with a force a tenth of 
their number (1803). 

P. 219, col. I, line 32. 

Of his laboured rampa7-t-lities. 
The lines of Torres Vedras ; the outermost 
ran 29 miles. 

P. 219, col, 2, line 6. 
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down. 
The day of Waterloo, Sunday, June 18, 
1815. 

P. 219, col. 2, line 12. 

Heaven flasJi d a sudde7i pibilant ray. 

The setting sun glanced on this last 
charge of the English and Prussians. 

P. 219, col. 2, line 22. 
Touch a spirit among things divine. 

Dwell upon the word "touch" and 
make it as long as " can touch." 

P. 220, col. 2, line 15. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 

After this line were five other lines in 
first edition : 

Perchance our greatness will increase ; 

Perchance a darkening future yields 

Some reverse from worse to worse. 

The blood of men in quiet fields, 

And sprinkled on the sheaves of peace. 



P. 220, col. 2, lines 7-9. 

He, 071 whom f7-07n both her ope7i hands 
Lavish Ho7iour shower d all her stars, 
And affluent Fortu7ie emptied all her horn. 

These are fuU-vowelled lines to describe 
Fortune emptying her Cornucopia. 

P. 221. [The Third of February 
1852 was writt?en when the House of Lords 
seemed to condone Louis Napoleon's coup 
ditatxw December 1851, and rejected the 
Bill for the organization of the Militia 
when he was expected to attack England. 
It was first published in The Examiner, 
Feb. 7, 1852. Hands all round was pub- 
lished in the same number, and B7-itons, 
guard your own in the number dated Jan. 
31, 1852. Edward FitzGerald writes : 
' ' The Authorship was kept secret, because 
of the Poet being Laureate to the Queen, 
then being, and wishing to be, on good 
Terms with Napoleon." — Ed.] 

HANDS ALL ROUND ! 1 

[When " Britons, guard your own," and " Hands 
all round " were written, my father along 
with many others regarded France under 
Napoleon as a serious menace to the peace 
of Europe. In later years after the Franco- 
German war, he was filled with admiration 
at the dignified way in which France was 
gradually gathering herself together. He 
rejoiced whenever England and France were 
in agreement, and co-operated harmoniously 
for the good of the world.] 

First drink a health, this solemn night, 

A health to England, every guest ; 
That man's the best cosmopolite, 

Who loves his native country best. 
May Freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day ; 
That man's the true Conservative 

Who lops the moulder' d branch away. 
Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my 

friends. 
And the great name of England round and 
round. 

1 Feb. 9th, 1852. I must send you what 
Landor says in a note this morning : " ' Hands 
all round ! ' is incomparably the best (convivial) 
lyric in the language, though Dryden's 'Drink- 
ing Song' is fine.'— John Forster to Mrs. 
Tennyson. 



NOTES 



937 



A health to Europe's honest men ! 

Heaven guard them from her tyrants' 
jails ! 
From wrong' d Poerio's noisome den, 

From iron'd limbs and tortured nails ! 
We curse the crimes of southern kings, 

The Russian whips and Austrian rods, 
We, likewise, have our evil things ; 

Too much we make our Ledgers Gods, 
Yet hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To Europe's better health we drink, my 

friends, 
And the great name of England round and 
round. 

What health to France, if France be she, 
Whom martial prowess only charms ? 
Yet tell her — Better to be free 

Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city's flashing heats 

But fire to blast the hopes of men. 
Why change the titles of your streets ? 
You fools, you'll want them all again. 
Yet hands' all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, 

my friends. 
And the great name of England round and 
round. 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 

We drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee most, we love thee best 

For art thou not of British blood ? 
Should war's mad blast again be blown, 

Permit not thou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone. 

But let thy broadsides roar with ours. 
Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our great kinsmen of the West, my 

friends, 
And the great name of England round and 
round. 

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons. 

When war against our freedom springs ! 
O speak to Europe thro' your guns ! 

They can be understood by kings. 
You must not mix our Queen with those 

That wish to keep their people fools ; 
Our freedom's foemen are her foes, 

She comprehends the race she rules. 
Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 



To our great kinsmen of the West, my 

friends, 
And the great cause of Freedom round and 

round. 

P. 222. The Charge of the Light 
Brigade. 

This poem (written at Farringford, and 
published in The Examiner, Dec. 9, 1854) 
was written after reading the first report of 
The Times correspondent, where only 607 
sabres are mentioned as having taken part 
in the charge (Oct. 25, 1854). Drayton's 
Agincourt was not in my mind ; my poem 
is dactylic, and founded on the phrase, 
" Some one had blundered." 

At the request of Lady Franklin I dis- 
tributed copies among our soldiers in the 
Crimea and the hospital at Scutari. The 
charge lasted only twenty-five minutes. I 
have heard that one of the men, with the 
blood streaming from his leg, as he was 
riding by his officer, said, "Those d — d 
heavies will never chaff us again," and fell 
down dead. 

P. 222, line I. Haifa league. Captain 
Nolan delivered the order. He rode in 
his saddle upright some moments after he 
w^as shot, his sword-hand uplifted, and was 
the first man killed. See Kinglake, vol. 
V. p. 220. Lord Cardigan and the Light 
Brigade covered a mile and a half, with 
Russian batteries on either hand and in 
front of them, before the}'^ encountered the 
enemy. 

P. 222, line 38. Not the six hundred. 
Only 195 returned. 

P. 223. Ode sung at the Opening 
OF the International Exhibition. 
[First published in The Ti7/ies, April 24, 
1862, incorrectly ; published afterwards 
correctly in Fraser's Magazi?ie, June 1862. 
—Ed.] 

The Prince Consort originated Inter- 
national Exhibitions. 

P. 223. Welcome to Alexandra. 
[Written at Farringford and published on 
March 10, 1863, the date of the marriage. 
—Ed.] 

P. 224. Welcome to Marie Alex- 
androvna. [Written at Farringford and 
published in The Times, June 23, 1874, 
after the marriage. — Ed.] 



938 



NOTES 



P. 225. The Grandmother. [Written 
at Farringford and first published in Once 
a Week, July 16, 1859. — Ed.] 

P, 228. Northern Farmer, Old 
Style and New Style. [First published 
in 1864 and 1869 respectively. — Ed.] 

Roden Noel calls these two poems 
photographs, but they are imaginative. 

The first is founded on the dying words 
of a farm-bailiff, as reported to me by my 
old great-uncle when he was verging upon 
80: "God A'mighty Httle knows what 
He's about a-taking me. An' Squire will 
be so mad an' all." I conjectured the 
man from that one saying. 

The Farmer, New Style, is likewise 
founded on a single sentence : " When I 
canters my 'erse along the ramper (high- 
way) I 'ears ' proputty, proputty, pro- 
putty,' " I had been told that a rich 
farmer in our neighbourhood was in the 
habit of saying this. I never saw the man 
and know no more of him. It was also 
reported of the wife of this worthy that 
when she entered the salle a fttanger of a 
sea-bathing place she slapt her pockets and 
said, "When I married, I brought him 
;^5ooo on each shoulder. " 

P. 229, line 28. radved an' rembled 
' nm out [tore up and threw them out. — 
Ed.]. 

P. 233. The Daisy. [First published 
in 1855. — Ed.] In a metre which I in- 
vented, representing in some measure the 
grandest of metres, the Horatian Alcaic. 
This poem is a record of a tour taken in 
1851. 

P. 233, line 5. Tia-bia, in the Western 
Riviera. 

P. 233, col. 2, line i. The Palazzo 
Ducale. 

P. 233, col. 2, line 7, Cascint, the Park 
of Florence. 

P. 233, col. 2, line 8. Boboli's ducal 
bowers [gardens behind the Pitti Palace. — 
Ed.]. 

P. 233, col. 2, line 39. rich Virgilian 
rustic measure. 
Anne lacus tantos ? Te, Lari maxume, 

teque 
Fluctibus et fremitu adsurgens, Benace, 
marino. Virg. Georg. ii. 159, 160. 



P. 234, col. I, line 3. fair port, 
Varenna, with its memories of Queen 
Theodolind, 

P. 234, col. I, line 28. 
And gray rnetropolis of the North. 

A Scotch professor objected to this. 
So I asked him to call London if he hked 
the " black metropolis of the south." 

P. 234. To the Rev. F. D. Maurice, 
[This invitation to Farringford was first 
published in 1855. 

Mr. Maurice had been ejected from his 
professorship at King's College for non- 
orthodoxy. He had especially alarmed 
some of the " weaker brethren " by point- 
ing out that the word ' ' eternal "in " eternal 
punishment" (at'cij/ios), strictly translated, 
referred to the quality not the duration of 
the punishment. 

He wrote accepting the duties of god- 
father, August 1852, with "thankfulness 
and fear." He writes again on August 
30th : "I have so much to thank you for, 
especially of late years since I have known 
your poetry better, and I hope I have been 
somewhat more in a condition to learn 
from it, that I cannot say how thankful I 
feel to you for wishing that I should stand 
in any nearer and more personal relation 
to you." — Ed.] 

P. 235. Will. [First published in 1855. 
—Ed.] 

P. 235. In THE Valley OF Cauteretz. 
[Written in 1861, published in 1864. — Ed.] 
A valley in the Pyrenees, where I had been 
with Arthur Hallam in former years, and 
in which at this time my family and I met 
Clough. 

P. 235. In THE Garden at Swains- 
ton. [Written in 1870 and first pub- 
lished in 1874. — Ed.] Line 3, 

Shadows of three dead men. 
Sir John Simeon, Henry Lushington, and 
Arthur Hallam. 

P. 235, line 7. The Master. [Sir John 
Simeon died at Friburg, 1870. — Ed.] 

P. 235. The Flower. [Written at 
Farringford and first piiblished in 1864. — 
Ed.] This does not refer to my poetry. 
It was written as a universal apologue, and 



NOTES 



939 



the people do not as yet call my flower a 
weed. 

[Mrs. Richard Ward, daughter of Sir 
John Simeon, wrote to me of this poem : 
' ' However absorbed Tennyson might be 
in earnest talk, his eye and ear were always 
alive to the natural objects around him. 
I have often known him stop short in a 
sentence to listen to a blackbird's song, to 
watch the sunlight glint on a butterfly's 
wing, or to examine a field-flower at his 
feet. The lines of The Flower were the 
result of an investigation of the ' love-in- 
idleness ' growing at Farringford. He made 
them nearly all on the spot, and said them 
to me (as they are) next day." — Ed.] 

P. 236. Requiescat. [First published 
in 1864. — Ed.] 

P. 236. The Sailor Boy. First pub- 
lished in the Victoria Regia, edited by Miss 
Emily Faithfull, 1861. 

P. 236, line 12. scrawl, the young of 
the dog- crab. 

P. 236. The Islet. [First published 
in 1864. — Ed.] 

A mountai?t islet pointed atid peak' d ; 
Waves on a diamond shiyigle dash. 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with Tnyrtle and clad with vine. 
And oversti-eam' d and silvery-streak' d 
With many a rivulet high against the Sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine. 

These lines, a fragment, were the 
nucleus of the poem, and perhaps it would 
have been better not to have expanded 
them into the singer and his wife. 

P. 237. Child-Songs. [First pub- 
lished in St. Nicholas, February 1880 ; set 
to music by my mother. — Ed.] 

I. The City Child. Rejected from The 
Princess. 

II. Minnie and Winnie. Rejected from 
The Princess. 

P. 237. The Spiteful Letter. First 
published in Once a Week, January 1868. 
It is no particular letter that I meant. I 
have had dozens of them from one quarter 
and another. 



P. 237. Literary Squabbles. [First 
published in Punch, March 7, 1846. — Ed.] 

P. 238. The Victim. [Printed in 1867 
at the Guest Printing Press, Wimborne, 
and first published in Good Words, January 
1869. — Ed.] I read the story in Miss 
Yonge's Golde.7i Deeds, and made it Scandi- 
navian. 

P. 238, line 3. thorpe and byre, town 
and farm. 

P. 239. Wages. [First published in 
Macmillan' s Magazine, February 1868. — 
Ed.] 

P. 239. The Higher Pantheism. 
[Written for the Metaphysical Society in 
1869, and first pubhshed in 1869. — Ed.] 

P. 240. The Voice and the Peak. 
[First published in 1874. — Ed. j Line 4, 
Green -rushing from the rosy thrones of 
dawn ! 

This line was made in the Val d' Anzasca 
after looking at Monte Rosa flushed by the 
dawn and rising above the chestnuts and 
walnuts (Sept. 4, 1873). 

P. 240. Flower in the crannied 
WALL. [First published in 1869. — Ed.] 
The flower was plucked out of a wall at 
"Waggoners Wells," near Haslemere. 

P. 240. A Dedication. [First pub- 
lished in 1864. Written at Farringford, 
and addressed to my mother. — Ed.] 

P. 241. BOADICEA. [Written at Far- 
ringford, and first published in 1864. — 
Ed.] This is a far-off echo of the metre 
of the Attis of Catullus. 

P. 241, line 6. 
Ydl'd and shriek'd betwt!e?i her datfghte?-s 

o'er a wild confMeracy 
is accented as I mark the accents. Let it 
be read straight like prose and it will come 
all right. 

[Fanny Kemble writes : "I do not 
think any reading of Tennyson's can ever 
be as striking and impressive as that 
' Curse of Boadicea ' that he intoned to us, 
while the oak-trees were writhing in the 
storm that lashed the windows and swept 
over Blackdown the day we were there." — 
I Ed.] 



940 



NOTES 



P. 242, line 10. miserable in ignominy 
is metrically equivalent to Catullus', for I 
put a tribrach where Catullus has a trochee. 

P, 243. [The translation from Homer 
and the experiments in quantity first pub- 
lished in the Cornhill Magazine, December 
1863.— Ed.] 

P. 243. Hexameters and Pe7itameters 
(in English) do not run well. See Cole- 
ridge's shockingly bad couplet as far as 
quantity goes — with the pentameter. 

In the pentameter aye falling In melody 
back. 
Much better would be 

Up goes Hexameter with might as a foun- 
tain arising, 
Lightly the fountain falls, Hghtly the penta- 
meter. 

It is noteworthy that in English doubling 
the consonant generally makes the foot 
preceding short, e.g. valley, etc. 

[My father thought that quantitative 
English Hexameters were as a rule only fit 
for comic subjects, though he said: "Of 
course you might go on with perfect Hexa- 
meters of the following kind, but they 
would grow monotonous : 
' High woods roaring above me, dark 
leaves falling about me. ' ' ' 

Some of the Hexameters in two quanti- 
tative experiments, "Jack and the Bean- 
stalk" and " Bluebeard," published by me 
anonymously in Miss Thackeray's Blue- 
beard's Keys, were made or amended by 
him. Throughout the Hexameters, by his 
advice, quantity, except here and there for 
the sake of variety, coincides with accent. 
—Ed.] 

P. 243. Alcaics. My Alcaics are not 
intended for Horatian Alcaics, nor are 
Horace's Alcaics the Greek Alcaics, nor 
are his Sapphics, which are vastly inferior 
to Sappho's, the Greek Sapphics. The 
Horatian Alcaic is perhaps the stateliest 
metre in the world except the Virgilian 
hexameter at its best ; but the Greek Alcaic, 
if we may judge from the two or three 
specimens left, had a much freer and lighter 
movement : and I have no doubt that an 
old Greek if he knew our language would 
admit my Alcaics as legitimate, only Milton 
must not be pronounced WM'n. 



iLvTXrjv eirei Ke vdos e/x./Sct (Alcseus). 

Is that very Horatian ? I did once begin 

an Horatian Alcaic Ode to a great painter, 

of which I only recollect one line : 

" Munificently rewarded Artist." 

P. 243, line 3. 

God-gifted organ-voice of England. 
Mr. Calverley attacked the "an" in 
"organ" as being too short, forgetting 
that in the few third lines of the stanzas 
left by Alc^us this syllable is more than 
once short. 

IxfKixpov, avrap diui<f)l Kbpaq, 
again : 

S} BiJ/cxi, (p6.piJ.aKov 5' apiarov. 
Look at Sappho's third line in the only 
Alcaic left of hers : 

ajfSws K€ a ov Kixayev dinrdT- 
Besides, I deny that the " an " in " organ- 
voice " is shorto Some would prefer 

God-gifted August Voice of England. 
" An " must be long by position. In 
TO 8' 'ivdev' dfifxes 8' hv to /neaaou (Alcasus) 
is es 8' short? 

P. 243, lines 6, 7. [from and as are 
long by position. — Ed.] 

P. 243, line 15. Some would prefer 
also in my line 
And crimson-hued the stately palm- woods 

' ' those stately palm-woods. " I do not 
agree with them, and I think that an old 
Greek would bear me out. T/ie before st 
is long; I declare. 

[I attempted the following translation of 
Horace's " Persicos Odi " into Sapphics, in 
which my father made the two lines : 

Dream not of where some sunny rose may 
linger 
Later in autumn. 

PERSICOS ODI 

Boy, we despise that revel of the Persian ; 
Loathe the lime -wreaths so deUcately 

woven ; 
Dream not of where some sunny rose may 

linger 
Later in autumn ! 



NOTES 



941 



Twine me some chaplet, be it only myrtle ! 
Myrtle will deck thee, filler of the wine-cup ! 
Myrtle will deck me, quaffing wine beneath 
this 
Vine-trellis arbour ! En.] 

P. 243. Hendecasyllabics. These must 
be read with the English accent. 

P. 243. Specimen of a Translation 
OF THE Iliad in Blank Verse. Some, 
and among these one at least of our best 
and greatest (Sir John Herschel), have 
endeavoured to give us the Iliad in English 
hexameters, and by what appears to me 
their failure have gone far to prove the im- 
possibility of the task. I have long held 
by our blank verse in this matter, and now, 
having spoken so disrespectfully here of 
these hexameters, I venture or rather feel 
bound to subjoin a specimen (however brief 
and with whatever demerits) of a blank 
verse translation. 

[My father also translated into prose the 
following passage from the Sixth Book of 
the Iliad : — 

Nor did Pai-is liriger i?i his lofty halls, 
but when he had girt on his goi'geojis armour, 
all of varied bronze, then he rushed through 
the city, glotying in his airy feet. And as 
when a stall-kept horse, that is barley-fed 
at the manger, breaketh his tether, arid 
dasheth thro the plain, spurning it, being 
wont to bathe himself in the fair-running 
river, rioting, arid reareth his head, and 
his mane flieth backward on either shoulder, 
arid he glorieth in his beauty, and his knees 
bear him at the gallop to the haunts and 
meadows of the mares ; — even so ran the son 
of Priam, Paris, from the height of Per- 
gamus, all in arms, glittering like the sun, 
laughing for light keariedness, and his swift 
feet bare him. 

At the end of 1865 my father wrote the 
following poem, which was published in 
Good Words, March 1868, and ruined by 
the absurd illustrations : 

FARRINGFORD 1865-1866 

I stood on a tower in the wet. 
And New Year and Old Year met, 
And winds were roaring and blowing ; 
And I said, " O years, that meet in tears. 
Have ye aught that is worth the knowing ? 



Science enough and exploring, — 
Wanderers coming and going, — 
Matter enough for deploring, — 
But aught that is worth the knowing? 
Seas at my feet were flowing. 
Waves on the shingle pouring, 
Old Year roaring and blowing. 
And New Year blowing and roaring ! 

Ed.] 

P. 244. The Window. [Printed at the 
Guest Printing Press at Wimborne, 1867 ; 
published with music by Arthur SuUivan, 
1871, and with the Poems, 1884. — Ed.] " 



IN MEMORIAM 

[Half a mile to the south of Clevedon in 
Somersetshire stands Clevedon Church, 
"obscure and solitary," on a lonely hill 
overlooking a wide expanse of water, where 
the Severn flows into the Bristol Channel. 
It is dedicated to St. Andrew, the chancel 
being the original fishermen's chapel. 

From the graveyard you can hear the 
music of the tide as it washes against the 
low cliffs not a hundred yards away. In 
the manor aisle of the church, under which 
is the vault of the Hallams, may be read 
this epitaph to Arthur Hallam, written by 
his father : 

TO 

THE MEMORY OF 

ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM 

ELDEST SON OF HENRY HALLAM 

ESQUIRE 

AND OF JULIA MARIA HIS WIFE 

DAUGHTER OF SIR ABRAHAM ELTON 

BARONET 

OF CLEVEDON COURT 

WHO WAS SNATCHED AWAY BY SUDDEN DEATH 

AT VIENNA ON SEPTEMBER ISTH 1833 

IN THE TWENTY-THIRD YEAR OF HIS AGE 

AND NOW IN THIS OBSCURE AND SOLITARY CHURCH 

REPOSE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF 

ONE TOO EARLY LOST FOR PUBLIC FAME 

BUT ALREADY CONSPICUOUS AMONG HIS 

CONTEMPORARIES 

FOR THE BRIGHTNESS OF HIS GENIUS 

THE DEPTH OF HIS UNDERSTANDING 

THE NOBLENESS OF HIS DISPOSITION 

THE FERVOUR OF HIS PIETY 

AND THE PURITY OF HIS LIFE 



942 



NOTES 



VALE DULCISSIME 

VALE DILECTISSIME DESIDERATISSIME 

REQUIESCAS IN PACE 

PATER AC MATER HIC POSTHAC REQUIESCAMUS 

TECUM 

USQUE AD TUBAM 

In this part of the church there is also 
another tablet to the memory of Henry 
Hallam, the epitaph written by my father : 
who thought the simpler the epitaph, the 
better it would become the simple and 
noble man, whose work speaks for him : 
HERE WITH HIS WIFE AND 
CHILDREN RESTS 
HENRY HALLAM THE HISTORIAN 

One of the ablest reviews of In Memo- 
riatn was by Gladstone. From this review 
I quote the following to show that in 
Gladstone's opinion my father had not over- 
estimated Arthur Hallam : 

In 1850 Mr. Tennyson gave to the world under 
the title of In Mevioriam, perhaps the richest 
oblation ever offered by the affection of friendship 
at the tomb of the departed. The memory of 
Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly in 
1833, at the age of twenty-two, will doubtless live 
chiefly in connection with this volume. But he 
is well known to have been one who, if the term 
of his days had been prolonged, would have 
needed no aid from a friendly hand, would have 
built his own enduring monument, and would 
have bequeathed to his country a name in all 
likelihood greater than that of his very distin- 
guished father. The writer of this paper was, 
more than half a century ago, in a condition to 
say 

I marked him 

As a far Alp ; and loved to watch the sunrise 

Dawn on his ample brow.l 

There perhaps was no one among those who 
were blessed with his friendship, nay, as we see, 
not even Mr. Tennyson, 2 who did not feel at once 
bound closely to him by commanding affection, 
and left far behind by the rapid, full and rich 
development of his ever-searching mind ; by his 
All-comprehensive tenderness, 
All-subtilising intellect. 

It would be easy to show what in the varied 
forms of human excellence, he might, had life 
been granted him, have accomplished ; much 
more difficult to point the finger and to say, 
"This he never could have done." Enough 
remains from among his early efforts, to accredit 
whatever mournful witness may now be borne of 
him. But what can be a nobler tribute than this, 
that for seventeen years after his death a poet, 
fast rising towards the loftj' summits of his art, 

1 De Vere's Mary Tudor, iv. i. 

2 See In Memoriam, cix., ex., cxi., cxn., 
CXIII. 



found that young fading image the richest source 
of his inspiration, and of thoughts that gave him 
buoyancy for a flight such as he had not hitherto 
attained. 1— Ed.] 



The following poems were omitted from 
In Memoriatn when I published, because 
I thought them redundant. ^ 

THE GRAVE (originally No. LVii. ) 
( Unpublished) 

I keep no more a lone distress, 

The crowd have come to see thy 
grave, 

Small thanks or credit shall I have, 
But these shall see it none the less. 

The happy maiden's tears are free 

And she will weep and give them way ; 
Yet one unschool'd in want will say 

' ' The dead are dead and let them be. " 

Another whispers sick with loss : 

" O let the simple slab remain ! 
The ' Mercy Jesu ' ^ in the rain ! 

The ' Miserere ' ^ in the moss ! 

" I love the daisy weeping dew, 

I hate the trim-set plots of art ! " 
My friend, thou speakest from the 
heart. 

But look, for these are nature too. 

TO A. H. H. (originally No. CVIII. ) 
( Unpublished) 

Young is the grief I entertain. 

And ever new the tale she tells, 
And ever young the face that dwells 

With reason cloister'd in the brain : 

Yet grief deserves a nobler name, 
She spurs an imitative will ; 
'Tis shame to fail so far, and still 

My failing shall be less my shame. 

Considering what mine eyes have seen, 

And all the sweetness which thou wast, 
And thy beginnings in the past. 

And all the strength thou would'st have 
been : 

1 Gladstone's Gleanings 0/ Past Years, vol. ii. 
pp. 136, 137. 

2 "O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me" was 
added in 1851. 

^ As seen by me in Tintern Abbey. 



NOTES 



943 



A master mind with master minds, 
An orb repulsive of all hate, 
A will concentric with all fate, 

A life four-square to all the winds. 

THE VICTOR HOURS 
(originally No. cxxvii. ) 
( Unpublished) 
Are those the far-famed Victor Hours 

That ride to death the griefs of men ? 
I fear not, if I fear'd them then ; — 
Is this blind flight the winged Powers ? 

Behold, ye cannot bring but good. 

And see, ye dare not touch the truth. 
Nor Sorrow beauteous in her youth. 

Nor Love that holds a constant mood. 

Ye must be wiser than your looks, 

Or wise yourselves or wisdom-led, 
Else this wide whisper round my head 

Were idler than a flight of rooks. 

Go forward ! crumble down a throne, 
Dissolve a world, condense a star, 
Unsocket all the joints of war. 

And fuse the peoples into one. 

P. 247, In Memoriam. [My father 
wrote in 1839 : "We must bear or we 
must die. It is easier perhaps to die, but 
infinitely less noble. The immortality of 
man disdains and rejects the thought — the 
immortality of man to which the cycles and 
aeons are as hours and days." — Ed.] 

P. 247. Introduction. Verse i. immortal 
Love. [In answer to a friend my father 
said : ' ' This might be taken in a St. John 
sense." Cf. i John iv. and v. — Ed.] 

P. 247. Introduction. Verse ii. 
Thine a7-e these orbs of light and shade. 
Sun and moon. 

P. 247. Introduction. Verse iv. [An 
old version of this verse was left by my 
father in MS. in a book of prayers written 
by my mother : 
Thou seemest human and divine, 

Thou madest man, without, within, 
But who shall say thou madest sin ? 
For who shall say, ' It is not mine ' ? 

Ed.] 
P. 247. Introduction. Verse vi. 
For knowledge is of things we see. 
TCL <paiv6fj,€va. 



P. 247. Introduction. Verse vii. 
May make one tnusic as before. 
As in the ages of faith. 

P. 247. Section i. Verse i. , lines 3 
and 4. I alluded to Goethe's cieed. 
Among his last words were these : ' ' Von 
Aenderungen zu hoheren Aenderungen," 
" from changes to higher changes." 

P. 247. Section I. Verse i. dizers tones. 
[My father would often say, ' ' Goethe is 
consummate in so many different styles." 
—Ed.] 

P. 247. Section i. Verse ii. 

The far-off interest of tears. 
The good that grows for us out of grief. 

Pp. 247, 248. Section i. Verses iii. , 
iv. [Yet it is better to bear the wild 
misery of extreme grief than that Time 
should obliterate the sense of loss and 
deaden the power of love. — Ed.] 

P. 248. Section IL Verse i. 

Thy fibres net the dreamless head. 
"NeKvuv ajxevqva Kaprjva. 

Od. X. 521, etc. 

P. 248. Section 11. Verse iii. Cf. 
XXXIX. 

To touch thy thousand years of glootn. 

[No autumn tints ever change the green 
gloom of the yew. — Ed.] 

P. 248. Section ill. First realization of 
blind sorrow. 

P. 248. Section ill. Verse ii. 

A web is wov'n across the sky. 
[Cf. cxxii. i.— Ed.] 

Frofn out waste places comes a cry, 
And murmurs fro7n the dying stin. 

Expresses the feeling that sad things in 
Nature affect him who mourns. 

P. 248. Section iv. Verse iii. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears. 
That grief hath shaken into frost. 

Water can be brought below freezing- 
point and not turn into ice — if it be kept 
still ; but if it be moved suddenly it turns 
into ice and may break the vase. 



944 



NOTES 



P. 248. Section vi. Verses i., ii. 
One writes, that ' Other friends remain,' 
That ' Loss is cominon to the race ' — 
And common is the commonplace, 
And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

Thai loss is covifnon would ?tot make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morni?tg wore 

To eve fling, but some heart did bj-eak. 

Cf. Lucretius ii. 578 : 

Nee nox uUa diem neque noctem Aurora 

secuta est, 
Quae non audierit mixtos vagitibus aegris 
Ploratus. 

My friend W. G. Ward, the well- 
known metaphysician, used to carry these 
two verses in his pocket — for he said that 
he felt so keenly that the vast -sorrow in 
the world made no difference to his own 
personal deep sorrows — but through the 
feeling of his own sorrow he felt the 
universal sorrow more terribly than could 
be conceived. [Cf. Me?noir, i. 202 ; ib. 
436.— Ed.] 

P, 249. Section vi. Verse v. [My 
father was writing to Arthur Hallam in 
the hour that he died. — Ed. ] 

P. 249. Section vii. Verse i. 
Da7-k house, by which once 7nore I stand 
Here in the long tmlovely street. 

67 Wimpole Street [the house of the 
historian Henry Hallam. A. H. H. used 
to say, " You will always find us at sixes 
and sevens." Cf, cxix. — Ed.] 

P. 250. Section ix. Verse iii. Phosphor, 
star of dawn. 

P. 250. Section ix. Verse iv. Sphere. 
[Addressed to the starry heavens. Cf. 
Enoch Arde?t : 

Then the great stars that globed them- 
selves in heaven. Ed. ] 

P. 250. Section ix. Verse v. [See 
below, LXXix. — Ed.] 

P. 250. Section x. Verse iii. {^home-bred 
fancies refers to the lines that follow — the 
wish to rest in the churchyard or in the 
chancel, — Ed,] 

P. 250. Section x. Verse v. tangle, or 
" oar-weed " {Laminaria digitata). 



P. 250. Section xi. Verse ii, 
Cahn and deep peace on this high wold. 
A Lincolnshire wold or upland from which 
the whole range of marsh to the sea is 

visible. 

P. 250. Section xii. Verse ii. 
/ leave this mortal ark behifid. 
My spirit flies from out my material self. 

P. 250. Section Xll, Verse iii. ocean- 
mirrors rounded large. [The circles of 
water which bound the horizon as seen 
below in the flight. Cf, 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. 
En och A rden . — Ed . ] 

P. 251. Section xiii. Verse iv. [Time 
will teach him the full reality of his loss, 
whereas now he scarce believes in it, and 
is like one who between sleep and waking 
can weep and has dream-fancies, — Ed.] 

Mine eyes have leisure for their tears. 

[Contrast the tearless grief in IV, iii. , and 
XX.— Ed.] 

P, 2cii. Section Xiv. [The unreality of 
Death.]! 

P, 251. Section xiv. Verse iii. 
The man I held as half-divine. 

[My father said, "He was as near per- 
fection as mortal man could be." — Ed,] 

P. 251, Section XV. [The stormy night, 
except it were for my fear for the ' ' sacred 
bark," would be in sympathy with me. — 
Ed.] 

P. 251. Section xv. Verse i. 

Atid roar f-om yonder dropping day. 
From the West. 

P. 251. Section xv. Verse iii. 
Athwart a plane of molteii glass. 
A calm sea. 

P. 251. Section xvi. [He questions 
himself about these alternations of ' ' calm 
despair" and "wild unrest." Do these 
changes only pass over the surface of the 
mind while in the depth still abides his 
unchanging sorrow? or has his reason 
been stunned by his grief? — Ed. ] 

1 Note by my mother. 



NOTES 



945 



Cf. 



P. 252. Section xviii. Verse i. 
Where he in Efiglish earth is laid. 
Clevedon. 

The violet of his native land. 

' ' Lay her in the earth, 
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring." 

Hamlet, v. i. 261. 

P. 252. Section xix. [Written at Tintern 
Abbey.— Ed.] 

P. 252. Section Xix. Verse i. 
The Danube to the Severn gave. 
He died at Vienna and was brought to 
Clevedon to be buried. 

P. 252. Section xix. Verse ii. 
There twice a day the Severn Ji lis ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 
And makes a silence in the hills. 
Taken from my own observation — the 
rapids of the Wye are stilled by the in- 
coming sea. 

P. 253. Section xxii. Verse i. fonr 
sweet years. [1828-32. — Ed.] 

P. 253. Section xxiii. Verse ii. 
Who keeps the keys of all the ci'eeds. 
After death we shall learn the truth of all 
beliefs. 

P. 253. Section xxiii. Verse v. 
And all the secret of the Spri?ig. 
Re-awakening of life. 

P. 254. Section xxiv. Verse i. wander- 
ing isles of night, sun-spots. 

P. 254. Section xxiv. Verse iv. 

And orb into the perfect star, etc. 

[Cf. Locksley Hall Sixty Years After : 

Hesper — Venus — were we native to that 

splendour or in Mars, 
We should see the Globe we groan in, 
fairest of their evening stars. 

Ed.] 
P. 254. Section xxv. Verse i. this was 
Life — chequered, but the burden was 
shared. 

P. 254. Section xxvi. Verse ii. 
And if that eye which watches guilt, etc. 
The Eternal Now. I AM. 



P. 254. Section xxvi. Verse iii. 
And Love the indifference to be. 
[And that the present Love will end in 
future indifference. — Ed. ] 

P. 254. Section xxvi. Verse iv. 
Then might I find, ei-e yet the morn 
Breaks hither over I?idia?i seas. 

[Cf. Midsiimmer- Night' s Dreaf?i, 11. ii. 10, 
and Comus, 140 : 

" Ere the blabbing eastern scout. 
The nice morn on the Indian steep. 
From her cabin'd loophole peep." 

The?t might I was in the original MS. 
So tnight L — Ed. ] 

my proper scorn, scorn of myself. 

P. 254. Section xxvil. Verse iii. {want- 
begotten rest means rest — the result of some 
deficiency or narrowness. — Ed.] 

P. 254. Section xxvii. Verse iv. 
' Tis better to have loved and lost, etc. 

[My father regretted that Clough imitated 
these lines in Altei-am Partem : 

'Tis better to have fought and lost 
Than never to have fought at all. Ed.] 

P. 255. Section xxviii. Verse v. 
The merry merry bells of Yule. 
They always used to ring on Xmas Eve. 

P. 255. Section xxix. [Original reading 
of first verse (MS. ) : 
With such compelling cause to grieve 

As that which drains our days of peace, 
And fetters thought to his decease, 
How dare we keep our Christmas-eve. 

Ed.] 

P. 255. Section xxix. [Original read- 
ing of third verse (MS. ) : 

Rut this — to keep it like the last, 
To keep it even for his sake ; 
Lest one more link should seem to 
break. 

And Death sweep all into the Past. Ed.] 

P. 255. Section xxx. Verse ii. the hall 
was the dining-room at Somersby which 
my father [the Rev. G. C. Tennyson] built. 

P. 255. Section xxx. Verse vii. 
Raptfro7n the fickle and the frail. 

3 P 



946 



NOTES 



[Cf. The Ring: 

No sudden heaven, nor sudden hell, for 

man. 
But thro' the Will of One who knows and 

rules — 
And utter knowledge is but utter love- 
Ionian Evolution, swift or slow, 
Thro" all the Spheres— an ever opening 

height, 
An ever lessening earth. 
Cf. Memoir, ii. 365. — Ed.] 
Rapt, taken. 

P. 255. Section xxx. Verse viii. when 
Hope was born. [My father often said : 
' ' The cardinal point of Christianity is the 
life after death."— Ed.] 

P. 255. Section xxxi. "She goeth 
unto the grave to weep there" (St. John 
xi. 31). 

P. 255. Section xxxi. Verse ii. 
Had surely added praise to praise. 
[Would have doubled our sense of thanks- 
giving. — Ed.] 

P. 255. Section xxxi. Verse iv. {He is j 
Lazarus. — Ed.] 

P. 256. Section xxxiii. Verse ii. 
A life that leads melodious days. 
Cf. Statins, Silv. i. 3 : 

ceu veritus turbare Vopisci 
Pieriosque dies et habentes carmina 
somnos. 
P. 256. Section xxxiii. Verse iv. 
In holding by the law within. 
[In holding an intellectual faith which does 
not care "to fix itself to form." — Ed.] 

P. 256. Section xxxiv. Verse i. See 
Introduction, Eversley Edition, pp. 218-19. 

P. 256. Section xxxv. Verse i. the 
narrow house, the grave. 

P. 256. Section XXXV. Verse iii. 
Ionian hills, the everlasting hills. 

The vastness of the Ages to come may 
seem to militate against that Love. [Cf. 
cxxiii. ii. — Ed.] 

P. 256, Section xxxv. Verse iv. 
The sound of that forgetful shore. 
" The land where all things are forgotten." 



P. 257. Section xxxvi. See Introduc- 
tion, Eversley Edition, p. 222. 

P. 257. Section XXXVI. Verse ii. 
For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 

Whei-e truth in closest words shall 

fail. 
When truth embodied in a tale 
Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

For divine Wisdom had to deal with the 
limited powers of humanity, to which truth 
logically argued out would be ineffectual, 
whereas truth coming in the story of the 
Gospel can influence the poorest. 

P. 257. Section xxxvi. Verse iii. the 
Word. [As in the first chapter of St. 
John's Gospel — the Revelation of the 
Eternal Thought of the Universe. — Ed.] 

P. 257. Section xxxvi. Verse iv. those 
wild eyes. By this is intended the Pacific 
Islanders, ' ' wild " having a sense of ' ' bar- 
barian " in it. 

P. 257. Section xxxvii. The Heavenly 
muse bids the poet's muse sing on a less 
lofty theme. 

[Melpomene, the earthly muse of 
tragedy, answers for the poet : "I am 
compelled to speak — as I think of the 
dead and of his words — of the comfort in 
the creed of creeds, although I feel myself 
unworthy to speak of such mysteries."]^ 

P. 257. Section XXXVII. Verse v. [The 
original reading in first edition : 

And dear as sacramental wine. 

Ed.] 

P. 257. Section xxxvii. Verse vi. 
master s field, the province of Christianity 
(see xxxvi.). 

P. 257. Section xxxviii. Verse ii. the 
bloioing season, the blossoming season. 

P. 257. Section xxxviii. Verse iii. 
\_If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits reiider' d free. 
Cf. Aen. iv. 34 : 

Id cinerem aut Manes credis curare sepultos ? 

Ed.] 

P. 257. Section xxxix. Verse i. smoke. 
This section was added in 1869. The 
yew, when flowering, in a wind or if struck 
1 Note by my mother. 



NOTES 



947 



sends up its pollen like smoke. [Cf. The 
Holy Grail : 

Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening 

half 
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 
That puff'd the swaying branches into 

smoke. 
Cf. Memoir, ii. 53. — Ed.] 

P. 257. Section xxxix. Verse ii. 

When fiower is feeling after Jlower. 
[The yew is dioecious. — Ed.] 

P. 257. Section xxxix. Verse iii. In 
Section 11. , as in the two last lines of this 
section. Sorrow only saw the winter gloom 
of the foliage. 

P. 258. Section XL. Verse vii. [would 
have told means — would desire to be told. 
— Ed.] 

P. 258. Section XL. Verse viii. I have 
parted with thee until I die, and my 
paths are in the fields I know, whilst thine 
are in lands which I do not know. [Cf. 
" the undiscovered country," Hamlet, in. i. 
—Ed.] 

P. 258. Section XLL [This section 
alludes to the doctrine which from first to 
last, and in so many ways and images, my 
father proclaimed — "the upward and on- 
ward progress of life." — Ed.] 

P. 258. Section XLL Verse iv. 
The ko7vlings from forgotten Jields. 
The eternal miseries of the Inferno. 

[More especially, I feel sure, a remini- 
scence of Dante's Inferno, Canto iii. lines 
25-51, which he often quoted as giving 
terribly the horror of it all. They describe 
those wretched beings, who for ever shriek 
and wail and beat their breasts because 
they are despised, and forgotten, and con- 
signed to everlasting nothingness on ac- 
count of their colourlessness and indiffer- 
ence during life : 

Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa ; 
Misericordia e giustizia gli sdegna ; 
Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda e passa. 

Ed.] 

P. 258. Section XLI. Verse vi. secular 
to-be, aeons of the future. [Cf. lxxvl ii. : 
The secular abyss to come. 

Ed.] 



P. 258. Section XLiiL If the immediate 
life after death be only sleep, and the spirit 
between this life and the next should be 
folded like a flower in a night slumber, 
then the remembrance of the past might 
remain, as the smell and colour do in the 
sleeping flower ; and in that case the 
memory of our love would last as true, 
and would live pure and whole within the 
spirit of ray friend until it was unfolded at 
the breaking of the morn, when the sleep 
was over. 

P. 258. Section XLIIL Verse i. 
Thro all its intervital gloom. 
In the passage between this life and the 
next. 

P. 258. Section XLiiL Verse iv. 

And at the spiritual prime. 

Dawn of the spiritual life hereafter. 

P. 259. Section XLiv. Verse i. 
God shut the doorways of his head. 
Closing of the skull after babyhood. 

The dead after this life may have no 
remembrance of life, like the living babe 
who forgets the time before the sutures of 
the skull are closed, yet the living babe 
grows in knowledge, and though the 
remembrance of his earliest days has 
vanished, yet with his increasing knowledge 
there comes a dreamy vision of what has 
been ; it may be so with the dead ; if so, 
resolve my doubts, etc. 

P. 259. Section XLV. Verse iv. 
This use may lie in blood and breath. 
[The purpose of the life here may he to 
realise personal consciousness. — Ed.] 

P. 259. Section xlvl [The original 
reading of first verse (MS. ) : — 

In travelling thro' this lower clime, 
With reason our memorial power 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour. 
Lest this should be too much for time. 
It is better for us who go forward on 
the path of life that the past should in the 
main grow dim. — Ed.] 

P. 259. Section XLVL Verse iv. 
Original reading of first line was : 
O me, Love's province were not large. 



NOTES 



Love, a bfooding star. As if Lord of 
the whole life. 

[Memory fails here, but memory in the 
next life must have all our being and exist- 
ence clearly in view ; and will see Love 
shine forth as if Lord of the whole life 
(not merely of those five years of friend- 
ship), — the wider landscape aglow with 
the sunrise of ' ' that deep dawn behind 
the tomb." 

For the use of 'Look,' cf. Dedication, 
' Dear, near and true. ' 
' Which in our winter woodland looks a 
fiower.' — Ed.] 

P. 259. Section XLVii. The individu- 
ality lasts after death, and we are not 
utterly absorbed into the Godhead. If we 
are to be finally merged in the Universal 
Soul, Love asks to have at least one more 
parting before we lose ourselves. 

P. 260. Section XLViii. Verse iii. 
shame to draw 
The deepest measure. 
[For there are ' ' thoughts that do often 
lie too deep for " mere poetic words. — Ed.] 

P. 260. Section XLix. Verse ii. crisp 
[curl, ripple. Cf. 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. 
The Lotos- Eaters. — Ed. ]. 

P. 260. Section Li. Verse iv. [See 
Memoir, i. 481. The Queen quoted this 
verse to my father about the Prince 
Consort, just after his death, and told him 
that it had brought her great comfort. 
—Ed.] 

P. 260. Section Lii. [I cannot love thee 
as I ought, for human nature is frail, and 
cannot be perfect like Christ's. Yet it is 
the ideal, and truth to the ideal, which 
make the wealth of life. ^ The more direct 
line of thought is that not even the Gospel 
tale keeps man wholly true to the ideal of 
Christ. But nothing — no shortcoming of 
frail humanity — can move that Spirit of 
the highest love from our side which bids 
us endure and abide the issue. — Ed.] 

P. 260. Section lii. Verse iv. Abide, 
wait without wearying. 

P. 261. Section Liii. Verses ii., iii., iv. 
And dare toe to this fancy give. 
1 Note by my mother. 



There is a passionate heat of nature in a 
rake sometimes. The nature that yields 
emotionally may turn out straighter than a 
prig's. Yet we must not be making 
excuses, but we must set before us a rule 
of good for young as for old. 

P. 261. Section Liii. Verse iv. divine 
Philosophy. [Cf. XXlll. vi. — Ed.] 
P. 261. Section LV. Verse i. 

The likest God within the so?-il. 
The inner consciousness — the divine in man. 
P. 261. Section LV. Verse iii. 

And finding that of fifty seeds 
She often brings but 07ie to bear. 
" Fifty " should be " myriad," 

P. 261. Section lv. Verse v. the larger 
hope. [My father means by ' ' the larger 
hope" that the whole human race would 
through, perhaps, ages of suffering, be at 
length purified and saved, even those who 
now "better not with time," so that at 
the end of The Vision of Siti we read : 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 

Ed.] 

P. 262. Section LVi, Verse vi. Dragons 
of the p7-ime. The geologic monsters of 
the early ages. 

P. 262. Section LVii. [Cf. The Grave, 
See sup7'a, p. 942. — Ed, ] 

P. 262. Section LVil. Verse ii. L shall 
pass; my work will fail. The poet speaks 
of these poems. Methinks I have built a 
rich shrine to my friend, but it will not last. 

P. 262. Section LVil. Verse iv. Ave, 
Ave. Cf. Catullus, Carm. ci. 10, these 
terribly pathetic lines : 
Accipe fraterno multum manantia fietu 

Atque in perpetuum frater Ave atque 
Vale. 

[My father wrote : ' ' Nor can any 
modern elegy, so long as men retain the 
least hope in the after-life of those whom 
they loved, equal in pathos the desolation 
of that everlasting farewell." — Ed.] 

P, 262. Section LVIII. Ulysses was 
written soon after Arthur Hallam's death, 
and gave my feelings about the need of 
going forward and braving the struggle of 
life perhaps more simply than anything in 
hi Mejnoriam. 



NOTES 



949 



P. 262. Section Lix. [Inserted in 1851 
as a pendant to Section iii. — Ed.] 

P. 262. Section LXI. In power of love 
not even the greatest deed can surpass the 
poet. 

P. 262. Section LXi. Verse i. [Cf. 
XXXVIII. iii. — Ed.] 

P. 263. Section LXI. Verse iii. doubt- 
ful shore. [Cf. 

and that which should be man, 
From that one light no man can look upon, 
Drew to this shore lit by the suns and 

moons 
And all the shadows. De Profundis. 
And: 
And we, the poor earth's dying race, and 

yet 
No phantoms, watching from a phantom 

shore. 
Await the last and largest sense to make 
The phantom walls of this illusion fade, 
And show us that the world is wholly fair. 
The Aficient Sage. — Ed.] 

P. 263. Section LXiv. [This section 
was composed by my father when he was 
walking up and down the Strand and Fleet 
Street.— Ed.] 

P. 263. Section LXiv. Verse iii. golden 
keys [keys of office of State. — Ed. ]. 

P. 264. Section Lxvii. Verse i. 
By that broad water of the west. 
The Severn. 

P. 264. Section Lxvii. Verse iv. I my- 
self did not see Clevedon till years after 
the burial of A. H, H. (Jan. 3, 1834), 
and then in later editions of /// Memorlam 
I altered the word "chancel " (which was 
the word used by Mr. Hallam in his 
Memoir) to " dark church." 

P. 264. Section lxviii. Verse i. 
Death! s twin-brother. ' ' Consanguineus 
Leti Sopor" (Aen. vi. 278). 

[Cf. //. xiv. 231 ; //. xvi. 672 and 682. — 
—Ed.] 

P. 264. Section LXix. To write poems 
about death and grief is " to wear a crown 
of thorns," which the people say ought to 
be laid aside. 

P. 264. Section Lxix. Verse iv. 
I found an angel of the night. 



But the Divine Thing in the gloom brought 
comfort. 

P. 265. Section LXXi. [The original 
reading of first verse (MS.) : 
Old things are clear in waking trance, 

And thou, O Sleep, hast made at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 
In which we went thro' sunny France. 

Ed.] 
we went [in 1832 (see Memoir, i. 51 
foil., and the poem In the Valley of 
Cauteretz). — Ed.]. 

P. 265. Section Lxxi. [The original 
reading of last verse ( MS. ) : 
Beside the river's wooded reach, 

The meadow set with summer flags, 
The cataract clashing from the crags, 
The breaker breaking on the beach. 

Ed.] 
P. 265. Section Lxxi. Verse iv. 
The cataract flashing from the bridge. 
[That is, from under the bridge. — Ed.] 

P. 265. Section Lxxii. Hallam's death- 
day, September the 15th. [Cf. xcix. 
—Ed.] 

P. 265. Section LXXii. Verse iv. yet 
look'd. [Yet wouldst have looked. — Ed.] 

P. 265. Section Lxxii. Verse vii. thy 
dull goal of Joyless gray [the dull sunset. — 
Ed.]. 

P. 265. Section LXXili. Verse ii. 
For nothing is that errs from law. 
Cf Zoroaster's saying, ' ' Nought errs from 
law. " 

P. 265. Section Lxxiii. Verse iv. 

And self infolds the large results 
Of force that would have forged a name. 

[And conserves the strength which would 
have gone to the making of a name. Cf. 
Ode on the Death of the Duke of Welling- 
ton : 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here, 
and foil. —Ed.] 

P. 266. Section Lxxv. Verse iii. the 
breeze of song. Qi. Pindar, Pyth. iv. 3 : 

O^pOV {j/XVU}V. 



950 



NOTES 



P. 266. Section lxxv. Verse iv. 
Thy leaf has perish' d in the green. 
At twenty-three, 

P. 266. Section LXXVi. Verse i. 
Take wings of fancy, and ascetid, 
And in a itioment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 
Are sharpened to a needle s end. 
So distant in void space that all our firma- 
ment would appear to be a needle-point 
thence. 

P. 266. Section LXXVi. Verse ii. 
The secular abyss to come 
= the ages upon ages to be (cf. Sect. XLi. 
vi.). 

P. 266. Section Lxxvi. Verse iii. the 
matifi songs. The great early poets. 

P. 266. Section LXXVI. Verse iv. these 
remain. [The yew and oak. — Ed.] 

P. 266. Section LXXVII. Verse iii. then 
chafiged to sotnething else. [The grief that 
is no longer a grief. — Ed. ] 

P. 266. Section LXXViii. Verse iii. 
The mimic picture's bj'eathi?ig grace. 
Tableaux vivants. 

P. 266. Section LXXViii. Verse iii. 
hoodmafi-blind, blind man's buff. [Cf. 
" What devil was't 
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman- 
blind?" Hamlet, iii. iv. 77. — Ed.] 

P. 267. Section LXXix. The section is 
addressed to my brother Charles (Tenny- 
son Turner). 

[My father wrote to Mr. Gladstone : 
' ' He was almost the most lovable human 
being I have ever met." — Ed.] 

P. 267. Section LXXix. Verse i. m fee 
[in possession. Cf. Wordsworth's sonnet 
on Venice : 

* ' Once did she hold the gorgeous East in 
fee." . Ed.]. 

P. 267. Section LXXiX. Verse iv. kin- 
dred brows was originally ' ' brother brows. ' ' 

P. 267. Section Lxxxi. Verse i. 
Could I have said while he was here 
= Would that I could have said, etc. 

[I printed this explanatory note, which 
my father read and did not alter ; and he 



told me, as far as I remember, that a note 
of exclamation had been omitted by acci- 
dent after "ear" (thus, "ear!"). James 
Spedding, in a pencil note on the MS. ot 
hi Memoria7n, writes, ' ' Could I have said " 
— meaning, " I wish I could." — Ed.] 

P. 267. Section Lxxxi. Verse ii. Love, 
then. [Love at that time. — Ed.] 

P. 267. Section lxxxii. Verse ii. 
F?'om state to state the spirit walks. 
[Cf. Sect. XXX. vi. and vii. , and 
Some draught of Lethe might await 
The slipping thro' from state to state. 
The Two Voices.— Ed.] 

P. 268. Section Lxxxiv. Verse iii. 
Whefi thou should' st link thy life with 
one 
Of mine own house. 

The projected marriage of A. H. H. with 
Emily Tennyson. 

P. 268. Section Lxxxiv. Verse xi. 
Arrive at last the blessed goal. 
Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost, Bk. ii. : 
' ' ere he arrive 
The happy isle." 

P. 268. Section lxxxiv. Verse xii. back- 
ward. [Looking back on what might have 
been. — Ed.] 

P. 269. Section Lxxxv. Verse vi. 
The great Intelligences fair. 
Cf. Lycidas : 

' ' There entertain him all the Saints above 
In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
That sing, and singing in their glory 

move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes." 
[Cf. Milton, Par. Lost, v. 407, and 
Dante, // Convito, ii. 5 : 
Intelligenze, lequali la volgare gente chiama 
Angeli. Ed.] 

P. 269. Section LXXXV. Verse vii. 
cycled times [earthly periods. — Ed.]. 

P. 269. Section LXXXV. Verse x. 

Yet none cozdd better know than I, 

How much of act at human hands 
The se?ise of hu?nan will demands. 
Yet I know that the knowledge that we 
have free will demands from us action. 



NOTES 



951 



P. 269. Section Lxxxv. Verse xiv. 
imaginative woe. [The imaginative and 
speculative sorrow of the poet. Cf. infra, 
verse xxiv. : 

And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Ed.] 
P. 269. Section LXXXV. Verse xxiii. 
[Think of me as having reached the final 
goal of bliss, and as triumphing in the 
one far-off divine event 
To which the whole creation moves. 

Ed.] 
P. 270. Section Lxxxv. Verse xxvi. , 
line I. 

[With love as true, if not so fresh. 
Ed.] 
P. 270. Section LXXXV. Verse xxvii. 
hold apart. [Set by itself, above rivalry, — 
Ed.] 

P. 270. Section LXXXV. Verse xxix. 
refers to his ' bride to be, ' Emily Sell wood. 

P. 270. Section LXXXVi. Written at 
Barmouth. 

P. 270. Section Lxxxvi, Verse i. a7n- 
brosial air. It was a west wind. 

P. 270. Section lxxxvi. Verse ii. the 
horned flood. Between two promontories. 

P. 270. Section lxxxvi. Verse iv. orient 
star. Any rising star is here intended. 

P. 270. Section Lxxxvii. Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge. 

P. 270. Section Lxxxvii. Verse iv. the 
rooms. Which were in New Court, Trinity. 
[Now 3 G.— Ed.] 

P. 271. Section lxxxvii. Verse x. 
The bar of Michael Angela. 
The broad bar of frontal bone over the 
eyes of Michael Angelo. 

P. 271. Section Lxxxviii. To the 
Nightingale. 

P. 271. Section Lxxxviii. Verse i. 
quicks [quickset thorn. — Ed.]. 

P. 271. Section Lxxxix. Somersby. 

P. 271. Section LXXXix. Verse i. 
countercha?ige [chequer. — Ed.]. 

The " towering sycamore" is cut down, 
and the four poplars are gone, and the 
lawn is no longer fiat. 



P. 271. Section lxxxix. Verse xii. 
Before the crimson-circled star 
Had fall ft into her father s grave. 
Before Venus, the evening star, had dipt 
into the sunset. The planets, according 
to Laplace, were evolved from the sun. 

P. 271. Section xc. [He who first 
suggested that the dead would not be 
welcome if they came to life again knew 
not the highest love. Cf. 
For surely now our household hearths are 

cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble 
joy. The Lotos- Eaters. — Ed.] 

P. 272. Section xci. Verse i. 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March. 

Darts the sea-shining bird of March 
would best suit the Kingfisher. I used to 
see him in our brook first in March. He 
came up from the sea. oKnropcpvpos e'tapos 
opuis (Alcman). [Cf. Memoir, ii. 4. — 
Ed.] 

P. 272. Section xcii. Verse iv. 

And such refraction of events 
As oftefi rises ere they rise. 
The heavenly bodies are seen above the 
horizon, by refraction, before they actually 
rise. 

P. 272. Section xciii. Verse ii. 

Where all the nerve of sense is numb. 
[This spiritual state is described in Sect. 
XCI v. — Ed.] 

P. 272. Section XCIII. Verse iii. 
With gods in unconjectured bliss. 
[Cf. Com^is, II : 

' ' Among the enthroned gods on sainted 
seats." Ed.] 

tenfold-cotnplicated. [Refers to the ten 
heavens of Dante. Cf. Paradiso, XXVIII. 
15 foil.— Ed.] 

P. 273. Section xciv. Verse iii. 
They haunt the silence of the breast. 
This was what I felt. 

P. 273. Section xcv. Verse ii. 
The brook alotie far-off was heard. 
It was a marvellously still night, and I 



952 



NOTES 



asked my brother Charles to listen to the 
brook, which we had never heard so far off 
before. 

P. 273. Section XCV. Verse iii. lit 
[alighted.— Ed.]. 

the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ef-mine capes 
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes. 
Moths ; perhaps the ermine or the puss- 
moth. 

P. 273. Section xcv. Verse ix. The 
livijig soul. The Deity, maybe. The 
first reading, "his living soul," troubled 
me, as perhaps giving a wrong impression. 

[The old passage that troubled him was : 
His living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in his was wound, and whirl' d 
About empyreal heights of thought, 
And came on that which is. 

With reference to the later reading, my 
father would say : "Of course the greater 
Soul may include the less. " He preferred, 
however, for fear of giving a wrong im- 
pression, the vaguer and more abstract 
later reading ; and his further comment 
was : "I have often had that feeling of 
being whirled up and rapt into the Great 
Soul."— Ed.] 

P. 273. Section xcv. Verse x. that 
which is. [T6 '6v, the Absolute Reality. — 
Ed.] 

P. 273. Section xcv. Verse xi. The 
trance came to an end in a moment of 
critical doubt, but the doubt was dispelled 
by the glory of the dawn of the ' ' boundless 
day." 

P. 274. Section xcvi. Verse ii. 

/ know not : one indeed I knew 

Iji many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch' d a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to 7?iake it true. 
A. H. H. 

P. 274. Section xcvi. Verse vi. Cf 
Exod. xix. 16, " And it came to pass on the 
third day, in the morning, that there were 
thunders and lightnings, and a thick cloud 
upon the mount, and the voice of the 
trumpet exceeding loud." 

[The thought suggested in this verse is 
that the stronger faith of Moses — found in 
the darkness of the cloud through commune 
with the Power therein dwelling — is of a 



higher order than the creeds of those who 
walk by sight rather than by insight. — Ed.] 

P. 274. Section xcvii. The relation 
of one on earth to one in the other and 
higher world. Not my relation to him 
here. He looked up to me as I looked up 
to him. 

The spirit yet in the flesh but united in 
love with the spirit out of the flesh re- 
sembles the wife of a great man of science. 
She looks up to him — but what he knows 
is a mystery to her. 

[Love finds his image every_where. The 
relation of one on earth to one in the other 
world is as a wife's love for her husband 
after a love which has been at first de- 
monstrative. Now he is compelled to be 
wrapt in matters dark and deep. Although 
he seems distant, she knows that he loves 
her as well as before, for she loves him in 
all true faith. ] ^ 

P. 274. Section xcvii. Verse i. 
His own vast shadow glory-crown' d. 
Like the spectre of the Brocken. 

P. 274. Section xcviii. Verse i. You 
leave tis. " You " is imaginary. 

P. 274. Section xcviii. Verse ii. wisp, 
ignis-fatuus. 

P. 275. Section XCVIII. Verse v. G?iarr, 
snarl. 

P. 275. Section xcviii. Verse vi. 
mother town, metropolis. 

P. 275. Section xcix. Verse i. 
Day, when I lost the flower of men. 
September the 15th. Cf. Lxxii. ii. 

P. 275. Section xcix. Verse iii. coming 
care [the hardship of winter. — Ed.]. 

P. 275. Section xcix. Verse v. 
Betwixt the slumber of the poles. 
The ends of the axis of the earth, which 
move so slowly that they seem not to move, 
but slumber. 

P. 275. Section c. (1837.) Verse i. 1 
climb the hill. Hill above Somersby. 

P. 275. Section c. Verse iv. 

Nor rtinlet titikling from the rock. 

The rock in Holywell, M'hich is a wooded 

ravine, commonly called there "the Glen." 

1 Note by my mother. 



NOTES 



953 



P. 276. Section ci. Verse iii. The 
brook. [The brook at Somersby, the charm 
and beauty of which was a joy to my father 
all his life.— Ed.] 

or whe?i the. lesser wain. [My father 
would often spend his nights wandering 
about the wolds, gazing at the stars. 
Edward FitzGerald writes : ' ' Like Words- 
worth on the mountains, Alfred too, when 
a lad abroad on the wold, sometimes of a 
night with the shepherd, watched not only 
the flock on the greensward, but also 
the fleecy star that bears 
Andromeda far off Atlantic seas. " 
Cf. Memoir, i. 19. — Ed.] 

P. 276. Section cii. Verse ii. 

Two spirits of a diverse love. 
First, the love of the native place ; second, 
this enhanced by the memory of A. H. H.' 

P. 276. Section cm. [I have a dream 
which comforts me on leaving the old home 
and brings me content. The departure 
suggests the departure of death, and my 
reunion with him. I have grown in spiritual 
grace as he has. The gorgeous sky at the 
end of the section typifies the glory of the 
hope in that which is to be. ] ^ 

P. 276. Section cm. Verse ii. 
Methought I dwelt within a hall, 
And maidens with me. 

They are the Muses, poetry, arts — all 
that made life beautiful here, which we hope 
will pass with us beyond the grave. 

hidden summits, the divine. 

river, life. 

P. 276. Section cm. Verse iv. sea, 
eternity. 

P. 276. Section cm. Verse vii. The 
progress of the Age. 

P. 277. Section cm. Verse ix. The 
great hopes -of humanity and science. 

P. 277. Section CIV. Verse i. 
A single church below the hill. 
Waltham Abbey church. 

P. 277, Section civ. Verse iii. 
But all is new unhallow' d ground. 
1 Note by my mother. 



High Beech, Epping Forest (where we 
wereHving). [Cf. xcix. ii. — Ed.] 

P. 277. Section cv. Verse iii. abuse. 
[Cf. XXX. ii. In the old sense — wrong. — 
Ed.] 

P. 277. Section CV. Verses vi.-vii. 

No dance, ?io motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 
Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 
The scintillating motion of the stars that 
rise. 

P. 277. Section CV. Verse vii. 
\Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle. 

Fulfil your appointed revolutions, and 
bring the closing period "rich in good." 
Cf. Virgil, Eel. iv. 4 : 
Ultima Cymaei venit jam carminis aetas. 

Ed.] 
P. 278. Section cvi. Verse viii. 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
The broader Christianity of the future. 

P. 278. Section cvii. Verse i, 
// is the day when he was born. 
February i, 18 11. 

P. 278. Section evil. Verse iii. grides, 
grates. 

P. 278. Section cvii. Verse iv. drifts. 
[Fine snow which passes in squalls to fall 
into the breaker, and darkens before 
melting in the sea. Cf, The Progress of 
Spring, III. — Ed.] 

P. 278. Section cviii. Verse i. 
/ will not shut me from my kitid. 

Grief shall not make me a hermit, and I 
will not indulge in vacant yearnings and 
barren aspirations ; it is useless trying to 
find him in the other worlds — I find nothing 
but the reflections of myself ; I had better 
learn the lesson that sorrow teaches. 

P. 278. Section cviii. Verse iv. [The 
original reading of last fine (MS. ) : 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee. 
Cf. CXill. i. 

A pencil note by James Spedding on 
the MS. of hi JMemoriam says: "You 
might give the thought a turn of this kind : 
' The wisdom that died with you is lost for 



954 



N07'£S 



ever, but out of the loss itself some other 
wisdom may be gained.' " — Ed.] 

P. 278. Section cix. [My father wrote 
to Henry Hallam on February 14, 1834 : 
' ' That you intend to print some of my 
friend's remains (tho' only for private 
circulation) has given me greater pleasure 
than anything I have experienced for a 
length of time. I attempted to draw up a 
memoir of his life and character, but I 
failed to do him justice. I failed even to 
please myself. I could scarcely have 
pleased you. I hope to be able at a 
future period to concentrate whatever 
powers I may possess on the construction 
of some tribute to those high speculative 
endowments and comprehensive sympathies 
which I ever loved to contemplate ; but at 
present, tho' somewhat ashamed at my 
own weakness, I find the object yet is too 
near me to permit of any very accurate 
delineation. You, with your clear insight 
into human nature, may perhaps not 
wonder that in the dearest service I could 
have been employed in, I should be found 
most deficient. ... I know not whether 
among the prose pieces you would include 
the one which he was accustomed to call 
his Theodicean Essay. I am inclined to 
think it does great honour to his originality 
of thought. Among the poems — if you 
print the one entitled Tijnhuctoo — I would 
request you, for my sake, to omit the 
initiatory note. The poem is everyway so 
much better than that wild and unmethod- 
ized performance of my own, that even 
his praise on such a subject would be 
painful. "1 The judgment on Hallam of 
his contemporaries coincided with that of 
my father. See Memoir, i. 105-108. — 
Ed.] 

P. 278. Section Cix. Verse i. 
Heart-affluence in discursive talk 

From household fountains never dry. 
[Cf. The PHncess, p. 177, col. 2, line 30 : 

and betwixt them blossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the 

hearth. 
And far allusion. 

1 From an unpublished letter in possession of 
Mr. Arthur Lee, M.P. 



See also Coleridge, Dejection, an Ode : 
' ' I may not hope from outward forms to 

win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains 

are within." Ed.] 

P. 279. Section cix. Veise vi. 
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 
If I do not let thy wisdom make me wise. 

P. 279. Section ex. Verse i. 

The men of rathe and riper years. 
["Rathe," Anglo-Saxon krceth, "early." 
Cf. Lancelot and Elaine : ' ' Till rathe she 
rose." — Ed.] 

P. 279. Section cxi. Verse v. Drew in 
[contracted, narrowed. — Ed.]. 

Where God and Nature met in light. 
Cf. Lxxxvii. Verse ix. : 

The God within him light his face. 
P. 279. Section cxi. Verse vi. charlatan. 
From Ital. ciarlatatio, a mountebank ; 
hence the accent on the last syllable, 

P. 279. Section cxii. Verse i. [High 
wisdom is ironical. " High wisdom " has 
been twitting the poet that although he 
gazes with calm and indulgent eyes on 
unaccomplished greatness, yet he makes 
light of narrower natures more perfect in 
their own small way. — Ed.] 

glorious iiisufficiencies. Unaccomplished 
greatness such as Arthur Hallam's. 

Set light by, niake light of. 

[In answer to "high wisdom" the poet 
says : ' ' The power and grasp and origin- 
ality of A. H. H. 's intellect, and the great- 
ness of his nature [which are not mere 
" glorious insufficiencies "], make me seem 
careless about those that have a narrower 
perfectness.]^ 

P. 279. Section cxii. Verse ii. the lesser 
lords of doom. Those that have free-will, 
but less intellect. 

P. 279. Section cxiii. Verse i. [Cf. 
cviii. iv. — Ed.] 

P. 280. Section cxiv. Verse i. 
Who shall fix 
Her pillars ? 
' ' Wisdom hath builded her house, she 
1 Note by my mother. 



NOTES 



955 



hath hewn out her seven pillars " (Prov. 
ix. i). 

P. 280. Section cxv. Verse i. burgeons, 
buds, 

maze of quick, quickset tangle. 
squares. [Cf. The Ring : 

the down, that sees 
A thousand squares of corn and meadow, 

far 
As the gray deep. Ed.] 

P. 280. Section cxvi. Verse i. crescent 
prifne, growing spring. 

P. 281. Section cxvii. Verse iii. 

And every spufi of shade that steals. 
The sun-dial. 

And every kiss of toothed wheels. 
The clock. 

P. 281. Section cxviii. Verse iv. [type, 
represent. Cf. The Prificess, p. 214, col. 2, 
lines 27, 28 : 

Dear, but let us type them now 

In our own hves. Ed.] 

P. 281. Section cxviii. Verse v. [By 
gradual self-development, or by sorrows 
and fierce strivings and calamities. — Ed. ] 

P. 281. Section cxix. [Cf. vii.— Ed.] 

P. 281. Section cxx. Verse i. Like 
Paul with beasts. "If after the manner 
of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus, 
what advantageth it me? " (i Cor. xv. 32). 

P. 281. Section cxx. Verse iii. 
Let him, the wiser man who springs 

Hej-eafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape. 

Spoken ironically against mere materialism, 
not against evolution. 

born to other things. [Cf. By an Evolu- 
tionist : 

The Lord let the house of a brute to the 
soul of a man, 
And the man said "Am I your debtor?" 
And the Lord — " Not yet : but make it as 
clean as you can, 
And then I will let you a better," 

Ed.] 

P. 281. Section cxxi. [Written at Ship- 



lake, where my father and mother were 
married. — Ed,] 

P, 282. Section cxxi. Verse v. 
Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name. 

The evening star is also the morning star, 
death and sorrow brighten into death and 
hope, 

P. 282. Section cxxii. Verse i. doo7n — 
that of grief. 

P. 282. Section cxxii. Verse v. 
And every dew-drop paints a bow. 
Every dew-drop turns into a miniature 
rainbow, 

P. 282. Section cxxiii. Geologic changes. 
[All material things are unsubstantial, yet 
there is that in myself which assures me 
that the spiritual part of man abides, and 
that we shall meet again.] ^ 

P. 282, Section cxxiii. Verse i. 
The stillness of the central sea. 
Balloonists say that even in a storm the 
middle sea is noiseless. 

[Professor George Darwin writes : 
" People always talk at sea of the howling 
of the wind and lashing of the sea, but it is 
the ship that makes it all. A man clinging 
to a spar in a heavy sea would only hear 
a little gentle swishing from the ' white 
horses.' " — Ed.] 

P. 282. Section cxxi 1 1. Verse iii. 

For tho' viy lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

[Cf. note to LVii. iv. , and the poem Prater 
Ave atque Vale. — Ed.] 

P. 282. Section cxxiv. Verse v. [blitid 
cla7Tiour refers to 

I heard a voice ' believe no more ' 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 
That tumbled in the Godless deep. 

Ed,] 

P. 283. Section cxxvi. [The following 
was originally the second verse (MS. ) : 
Love is my king, nor here alone, 

But where I see the distance loom. 
For in the field behind the tomb 
There rests the shadow of his throne. 

Ed] 
^ Note by my mother. 



956 



NOTES 



P. 283. Section cxxvi. [The following 
was originally the third verse (MS.) : 
And hear at times a sentinel 

That moves about from place to place, 
And whispers to the vast of space 
Among the worlds, that all is well. 

Ed.] 

P. 283. Section cxxvii. Verse iv, bnde 
earth. [Cf. " bruta tellus," the heavy, 
inert earth (Hor. Carm. I. xxxiv. ) — Ed.] 

P, 283. Section cxxviii. [In comrade- 
ship with Love that is all the stronger for 
facing Death, the Faith which believes in 
the progress of the world sees that all in 
the individual as in the race is working to 
one great result, however retrograde the 
eddies of the world-currents may at times 
appear to be.]^ (This section must be 
read in close connection with cxxvi. and 
CXXVII. ) 

P. 284. Section cxxix. [These two faiths 
are in reality the same. The thought of 
thee as human and divine mingles with all 
great thoughts as to the destiny of the world 
(cf. cxxx.).]2 

He " shall live though he die." 

P. 284. Section cxxxi. [The following 
words were uttered by my father in January 
1869, and bear upon this section : — " Yes, 
it is true that there are moments when the 
flesh is nothing to me, v/hen I feel and 
know the flesh to be the vision, God and 
the Spiritual the only real and true. Depend 
upon it, the Spiritual is the real : it belongs 
to one more than the hand and the foot. 
You may tell me that my hand and my 
foot are only imaginary symbols of my 
existence, I could believe you ; but you 
never, never can convince me that the / is 
not an eternal Reality, and that the Spiritual 
is not the true and real part of me. " These 
words he spoke with such passionate earnest- 
ness that a solemn silence fell on us as he 
left the room. — ED.] 

P. 284. Section cxxxi. Verse i. O living 
will. That which we know as Free-will in 
man. 

spiritual rock. [Cf. i Cor. x. 4. — Ed.] 
P. 284. Section cxxx. Verse ii. co7i- 
1 Note by my mother. 2 Note by my mother. 



quer'd years. [Cf. "victor Hours," I. iv. 
—Ed.] 

P. 284. Conclusion. The marriage of 
Edmund Lushington and Cecilia Tennyson, 
Oct. 10, 1842. 

[These two verses were probably written 
at this time : 

SPEAK TO ME 

Speak to me from the stormy sky ! 
The wind is loud in holt and hill, 
It is not kind to be so still : 

Speak to me, dearest, lest I die. 

Speak to me, let me hear or see ! 
Alas, my life is frail and weak : 
Seest thou my faults and wilt not speak? 

They are not want of love for thee. 

, Ed.] 

P. 286. Maud ; a Monodrama. 
[First pubhshed in 1855. My father liked 
reading aloud this poem, a " Drama of the 
Soul, ' ' set in a landscape glorified by Love, 
and, according to Lowell, "The anti- 
phonal voice to In Memoriam,' which is 
the " Way of the Soul." The whole of it, 
except " O that 'twere possible " (see Note 
on Part II. iv. and Introduction), was 
written at Farringford. — Ed.] The stanzas 
where he is mad in Bedlam, from ' Dead, 
long dead ' to ' Deeper, ever so little deeper, ' 
were written in twenty minutes, and some 
mad doctor wrote to me that nothing since 
Shakespeare has been so good for madness 
as this." 

' ' At the opening of the drama, the chief 
person or hero of the action is introduced 
with scenery and incidents artistically dis- 
posed around his figure, so as to make the 
reader at once acquainted v/ith certain facts 
in his history. Although still a young man , 
he has lost his father some years before by 
a sudden and violent death, following im- 
mediately upon unforeseen ruin brought 
about by an unfortunate speculation in 
which the deceased had engaged. Whether 
the death was the result of accident, or 
self-inflicted in a moment of despair, no 
one knows, but the son's mind has been 
painfully possessed by a suspicion of villainy 
and foul pla)' somewhere, because an old 
friend of his family became suddenly and 
unaccountably rich by the same transaction 
that had brought ruin to the dead. Shortly 



NOTES 



957 



after the decease of his father, the bereaved 
young man, by the death of his mother, is 
left quite alone in the world. He continues 
thenceforth to reside in the retired village 
in which his early days have been spent, 
but the sad experiences of his youth have 
confirmed the bent of a mind constitu- 
tionally prone to depression and melancholy. 
Brooding in loneliness upon miserable 
memories and bitter fancies, his tempera- 
ment as a matter of course becomes more 
and more morbid and irritable. He can 
see nothing in human affairs that does not 
awaken in him disgust and contempt. Evil 
glares out from all social arrangements, and 
unqualified meanness and selfishness appear 
in every human form, and he keeps to 
himself and chews the cud of cynicism 
and discontent apart from his kind. Such 
in rough outline is the figure the poet has 
sketched as the foundation and centre of 
his plan. . . . Since the days of his early 
youth up to the period when the immediate 
action of the poem is supposed to com- 
mence, the dreamy recluse has seen 
nothing of the family of the man to whom 
circumstances have inclined him to attri- 
bute his misfortunes. This individual, 
although since his accession to prosperity 
the possessor of the neighbouring hall and 
of the manorial lands of the village, has 
been residing abroad. Just at this time, 
however, there are workmen up at the 
dark old place, and a rumour spreads that 
the absentees are about to return. This 
rumour, as a matter of course, stirs up 
afresh rankling memories in the breast of 
the recluse, and reawakens there old griefs. 
But with the group of associated recollec- 
tions that come crowding forth, there is 
one of the child Maud, who was in happier 
days his merry playfellow. She will now, 
however, be a child no longer." — Robert 
James Mann, M.D., P\R.A.S., etc. 

Part I 

[The division into Parts does not exist 
in the original 1855 edition, which contains 
XXVI. Sections. — Ed.] 

P. 286. I. Before the arrival of Maud. 

P. 286. I. Verse i. blood-red heath. 
[My father would say that in calling heath 
"blood "-red the hero showed his extra- 



vagant fancy, which is already on the 
road to madness. — Ed.] 

P. 288. Verse xix. [My father allowed 
me to print in these notes some few of the 
variorum readings for which his friends 
had asked, but he said tome, " Very often 
what is published in my poems as the 
latest edition has been the original version 
in the first manuscript, so that there is no 
possibility of really tracing the history of 
what may seem to be a new word or 
passage. For instance, in the first edition 
of Maud I wrote, ' I will bury myself in 
7ny books and the Devil may pipe to his 
own,' which was afterwards altered to ' I 
will bury myself in myself,' etc. This was 
highly commended by the critics as an 
improvement on the original reading, 
whereas it was actually in the first MS. 
draft of the poem. Great works have 
been entirely spoilt for me by the modern 
habit of giving every various reading along 
with the text."— Ed.] 

P. 288. II. First sight of Maud. 

P. 289. III. Visions of the night. Broad- 
flung shifwrecki7ig roar. In the Isle of 
Wight the roar can be heard nine miles 
away from the beach. 

[Many of the descriptions of Nature 
are taken from observations of natural 
phenomena at Farringford, although the 
localities in the poem are all imaginary.— 
Ed.] 

P. 289. IV. Mood of bitterness after 
fancied disdain. 

P. 290. IV. Verse vi. A monstrous eft, 
the great old lizards of geology. 

P. 290. IV. Verse viii. an Isis hid by tJie 
veil. The great Goddess of the Egyptians. 
'E7W eifxi Trav rb yeyovSs, Kai 6v, Kal 
iaofxepov, Kal rbv ifihv ■7r^Tr\ov ovdeis to) 
$u7]t6s air€Ka.\v\pe. 

P. 291. V. He fights against his 
growing passion. 

P. 291. VI. First interview with Maud. 

P. 292. VI. Verse vi. Assyrian Bull. 
With hair curled like that of the bulls on 
Assyrian sculpture. 

P. 292. VII. He remembers his father 
and her father talking just before the birth 
of Maud. 



958 



NOTES 



P. 293. VIII. It cannot be pride that 
she did not return his bow. (Sec. iv. 
verse iii.) 

P. 293. IX. First sight of the young 
lord. 

P. 293, X. Verse iii. 

Last week came one to the cotmty town. 

The Westminster Review said this was 
an attack on John Bright. I did not even 
know at the time that he was a Quaker. 
[It was not against Quakers but against 
peace-at-all-price men that the hero ful- 
minates.] 

This was originally verse iii., but I 
omitted it : 

Will she smile if he presses her hand, 
This lord-captain up at the Hall ? 
Captain ! he to hold a command ! 
He can hold a cue, he can pocket a ball ; 
And sure not a bantam cockerel lives 
With a weaker crow upon English land, 
Whether he boast of a horse that gains. 
Or cackle his own applause. . . . 
What use for a single mouth to rage 
At the rotten creak of the State-machine ; 
Tho' it makes friends weep and enemies 

smile, 
That here in the face of a watchful age. 
The sons of a gray-beard-ridden isle 
Should dance in a round of an old routine. 

P. 294. XII. Interview with Maud. 
P. 294. XII. Verse i. 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud. 
Like the rooks' caw. 
P. 294. XII. Verse iii, 

Maud is here, here, here. 
Like the call of the little birds. 
P. 294. XII. Verse vi. 

And left the daisies rosy. 
Because if you tread on the daisy, it 
turns up a rosy underside. 

P. 295. XIII. Morbidly prophetic. He 
sees Maud's brother, who will not recognise 
him. 

P. 296. XVI. He will declare his love. 

P. 296. XVII. Accepted. 

P. 297. xvill. Happy. The sigh in 
the cedar branches seems to chime in with 
his own yearning. 



P. 297. xvill. Verse iv. The sad 
astrology is modern astronomy, for of old 
astrology was thought to sympathise with 
and rule man's fate. The stars are ' ' cold 
fires," for tho' they emit light of the highest 
intensity, no perceptible warmth reaches 
us. His newer astrology describes them 
{verse viii. ) as " soft splendours." 

P. 298. xviii. Verse vii. 
Not die ; hit live a life of truest breath. 
This is the central idea — the holy power 
of Love. 

P. 298. xviii. Verse vii. 
The dusky strand of Death inwoven here. 

Image taken from the coloured strands 
inwoven in coloured ropes, e.g. in the 
Admiralty rope. 

P. 300. XXI. Before the Ball. 

P. 300. XXII. In the Hall-Garden. 

Part II 

P. 301. I. The Phantom (after the duel 
with Maud's brother). 

P. 302. II. In Brittany. The shell 
undestroyed amid the storm perhaps sym- 
bolises to him his own first and highest 
nature preserved amid the storms of 
passion. 

P. 303. II. Verse vi. 

But that of Lamech is mine. 

" I have slain a man to my wounding, 
and a young man to my hurt " (Gen. iv. 
23)- 

P. 303. III. He felt himself going mad. 

P. 303. IV. Haunted (after Maud's 
death). 

" O that 'twere possible" appeared first 
in the Tribute, 1837. Sir John Simeon 
years after begged me to weave a story 
round this poem, and so Maud came into 
being. 

P. 305. V. In the madhouse. 

P. 305. v. Verse iv. 

Who told him we were there ? 
i.e. the brother. 

P. 305. V. Verse v. gray old wolf. 
[Cf. Part^I. XIII. iii.— Ed.] 



NOTES 



959 



P. 305. V. Verse v. Crack them now 
for yourself. For his son is, he thinks, 
dead. 

P- 305- V. Verse vi. 
A7id curse me the British vermi7i, the rat. 

The Norwegian rat has driven out the 
old EngHsh rat. [The Jacobites asserted 
that the brown Norwegian rat came to 
England with the House of Hanover, 1714, 
and hence called it " the Hanover rat." — 
Ed.] 

P. 306. V. Verse viii. the keeper =\.]\e 
brother. 

P. 306. V. Verse viii, a dead man, that 
is, himself in his fancy, 

P. 306. V. Verse ix. what will the old 
man say ? Maud's father. 

The second corpse is Maud's brother, 
the lover's father being the first corpse, 
whom the lover thinks that Maud's father 
murdered. 

Part HI 
P. 306. VI. Sane, but shattered. Written 
when the cannon was heard booming from 
the battleships in the Solent before the 
Crimean War. 

[Some of the reviews accused my father 

of loving war, and urging the country to 

war, charges which he sufficiently answered 

in the " Epilogue to the Heavy Brigade " : 

And who loves War for War's own sake 

Is fool, or crazed, or worse ; 
But let the patriot-soldier take 
His meed of fame in verse. 

Indeed, he looked passionately forward to 
the 

Parliament of man, the Federation of the 
world. 

What the hero in Maud says is that the 
sins of the nation, " civil war " as he calls 
them, are deadlier in their effect than what 
is commonly called war, and that they may 
be in a measure subdued by the war 
between nations, which is an evil more 
easily recognised. Cf. Gladstone's Glean- 
ings, vol. ii. , on Maud. — Ed.] 

P. 307. VI. [On the i6th of March 
1854 my father was looking through his 
(Farringford) study window at the planet 
Mars, " as he glow'd like a ruddy shield 



on the Lion's breast," and so determined 
to name his second son, who was born on 
that day, Lionel. — Ed.] 



THE IDYLLS OF THE KING 

INTRODUCTORY NOTE BY THE 
EDITOR 

The earliest prose fragment about King 
Arthur that I can find among my fatlier's 
MSS. was probably written about 1833. 
I give it as it stands. 

King Arthur 

On the latest limit of the West in the 
land of Lyonnesse, where, save the rocky 
Isles of Scilly, all is now wild sea, rose the 
sacred Mount of Camelot. It rose from 
the deeps with gardens and bowers and 
palaces, and at the top of the Mount was 
King Arthur's hall, and the holy Minster 
with the Cross of gold. Here dwelt the 
King in glory apart, while the Saxons 
whom he had overthrown in twelve battles 
ravaged the land, and ever came nearer 
and nearer. 

The Mount was the most beautiful in 
the world, sometimes green and fresh in 
the beam of morning, sometimes all one 
splendour, folded in the golden mists of 
the West. But all underneath it was 
hollow, and the mountain trembled, when 
the seas rushed bellowing through the 
porphyry caves ; and there ran a prophecy 
that the moimtain and the city on some 
wild morning would topple into the abyss 
and be no more. 

It was night. The King sat in his Hall. 
Beside him sat the sumptuous Guinevere 
and about him were all his lords and 
knights of the Table Round. There they 
feasted, and when the feast was over the 
Bards sang to the King's glory. 



The following memorandum was given 
by my father to Sir James Knowles at 
Aldworth on October i, 1869, who told 
him that it was between thirty and forty 
years old. It was probably written at the 
same time as the fragment which I have 
just quoted. However, the allegorical 
drift here marked out was fundamentally 
changed in the later scheme of the Idylls. 



96o NOTES 



From an Original MS., about 1833. 






NOTES 



961 



Before 1840 it is evident that my father 
wavered between casting the Arthurian 
legends into the form of an epic or into 
that of a musical masque ; for in one of 
his 1833-1840 MS. books there is the 
following first rough draft of a scenario, 
into which the Lancelot and Elaine scenes 
were afterwards introduced. 

First Act 
Sir Mordred and his party. Mordred 
inveighs against the King and the Round 
Table. The knights, and the quest. 
Mordred scoffs at the Ladies of the Lake, 
doubts whether they are supernatural 
beings, etc. Mordred's cringing interview 
with Guinevere. Mordred and the Lady 
of the Lake. Arthur lands in Albyn. 

Second Act 
Lancelot's embassy and Guinevere. The 
Lady of the Lake meets Arthur and en- 
deavours to persuade him not to fight with 
Sir Mordred. Arthur will not be moved 
from his purpose. Lamentation of the 
Lady of the Lake. Elaine. Marriage of 
Arthur. 

Third Act 

Oak tomb of Merlin. The song of 
Nimue. Sir Mordred comes to consult 
Merlin. Coming away meets Arthur. 
Their fierce dialogue. Arthur consults 
Sir L. and Sir Bedivere. Arthur weeps 
over Merlin and is reproved by Nimue, 
who inveighs against Merlin. Arthur asks 
Merlin the issue of the battle. Merlin will 
not enlighten him. Nimue requests Arthur 
to question Merlin again. Merlin tells him 
he shall bear rule again, but that the Ladies 
of the Lake can return no more. Guine- 
vere throws away the diamonds into the 
river. The Court and the dead Elaine. 

Fourth Act 
Discovery by Mordred and Nimue of 
Lancelot and Guinevere. Arthur and 
Guinevere's meeting and parting. 

Fifth Act 
The battle. Chorus of the Ladies of 
the Lake. The throwing away of Excali- 
bur and departure of Arthur. 



After this my father began to study the 
epical King Arthur in earnest. He had 



travelled in Wales, and meditated a tour 
in Cornwall. He thought, read, talked 
about King Arthur. He made a poem on 
Lancelot's quest of the San Graal ; ''in as 
good verse," he said, " as / ever wrote — ?to, 
I did 7wt write, I made it in my head, and 
it has altogether siipt out of memory."^ 
What he called " the greatest of all poetical 
subjects'' perpetually haunted him. But it 
was not till 1855 that he determined upon 
something like the final shape of the poem, 
and not until 1859 that he published the 
first instalment, Etiid^^ Vivien, Elai?ie, 
Guinevere. In spite of the public applause 
he did not rush headlong into the other 
Idylls of the King, although he had carried 
a more or less perfected scheme of them in 
his head over thirty years. For one thing, 
he did not consider that the time was ripe. 
In addition to this, he did not find himself 
in the proper mood to write them, and he 
never could work except at what his heart 
impelled him to do. — Then, however, he 
devoted himself with all his energies and 
with infinite enthusiasm to that work alone, 
Gladstone says : ^ 

We know not where to look in history or in 
letters for a nobler or more overpowering concep- 
tion of man as he might be, than in the Arthur 
of this volume. Wherever he appears, it is as 
the great pillar of the moral order, and the 
resplendent top of human excellence. But even 
he only reaches to his climax in these two really 
wonderful speeches [at the end of Guinevere]. 
They will not bear mutilation : they must be 
read, and pondered, to be known. 

Most explanations and analyses, although 
eagerly asked for by some readers, 
appeared to my father somewhat to dwarf 
and limit the life and scope of the great 
Arthurian tragedy ; and therefore I will 
add no more, except what Jowett wrote in 
1893: "Tennyson has made the Arthur 
legend a great revelation of human experi- 
ence, and of the thoughts of many hearts." 



P. 308. Dedication. To the Prince 
Consort. [First published in the edition 
of 1862.— Ed.] 

1 Letter from my father to the Duke of Argyll, 
1859. 

2 He found out that the " E " in " Enid " was 
pronounced short (as if it were spelt " Ennid "), 
and so altered the phrase in the proofs " wedded 
Enid" to "married Enid." 

Had married Enid, Yniol's only child. 

3 Gleanings of Past Years, vol. ii. p. 166. 

3 Q 



962 



NOTES 



P. 308, col. I, line 5. Idylls. Regard- 
ing the Greek derivation, I spelt my Idylls 
with two /'s mainly to divide them from 
the ordinary pastoral idyls usually spelt 
with one /. These idylls group themselves 
round one central figure. 

P. 308, col. I, line 6. 
Scarce other than my kin^ s ideal knight. 

[The first reading, ' ' my own ideal 
knight," was altered because Leslie Stephen 
and others called King Arthur a portrait 
of the Prince Consort. — Ed.] 

P. 308, col. I, line 12. the gloom of 
imviinent war. Owing to the Trent 
affair, when two Southern Commissioners 
accredited to Great Britain and France 
by the Confederate States were taken off 
a British steamship, the Tre7it, by the 
captain of the Federal man-of-war San 
Jacinto. The Queen and the Prince 
Consort were said to have averted war by 
their modification of a dispatch. 

P. 308, col. 2, lines 12, 13. 
\^Fa7-- sighted summon er of War and Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace 
refers to the Prince Consort's work in the 
planning of the International Exhibitions 
of 1851 and 1862, — Ed.] 
You brought a vast design to pass 

When Europe and the scatter'd ends 
Of our fierce world were mixt as 
friends 
And brethren in her walls of glass 
were lines that I wrote about the 18 51 
Exhibition. 

P. 308, col. 2, line 16. thy land is 
Saxe-Coburg Gotha, whence Prince Albert 
came. 

P. 309. The Coming of Arthur. 
[First published in the Holy Grail volume, 
1869. In this Idyll the poet lays bare 
the main lines of his story and of his 
parable. — Ed. ] 

How much of history we have in the 
story of Arthur is doubtful. Let not my 
readers press too hardly on details whether 
for history or for allegory. Some think 
that King Arthur may be taken to typify 
conscience. He is anyhow meant to be a 
man who spent himself in the cause of 



honour, duty and self-sacrifice, who felt 
and aspired with his nobler knights, 
though with a stronger and a clearer 
conscience than any of them, "reveren- 
cing his conscience as his king." "In 
short, God has not made since Adam was, 
the man more perfect than Arthur," as 
an old writer says. " Major praeteritis 
majorque futuris Regibus. " The vision of 
Arthur as I have drawn him came upon 
me when, little more than a boy, I first 
lighted upon Malory. 

\& time CO ])e wes icoren : 

pa wes ArSur iboren. 

Sone swa he com an eorSe : 

aluen hine iuengen. 

heo bigolen J)at child : 

mid galdere swi9e stronge 

heo 5eue him mihte : 

to beon bezst aire cnihten. 

heo 3euen him an oSer ])ing : 

]>at he scolde beon riche king. 

heo 3iuen hi jjat jjridde : 

])at he scolde longe libben. 

heo 3isen him ])at kine-bern : 

custen swiSe gode. 

])at he wes mete-custi : 

of alle quikemonnen. 

])is ])e alue him 5ef : 

And al swa ])at child ijjseh. 
Layamon's Brut, Madden, vol. ii. 384. 
(The time came that was chosen, then 
was Arthur born. So soon as he came on 
earth, elves took him ; they enchanted the 
child with magic most strong, they gave 
him might to be the best of all knights ; 
they gave him another thing, that he 
should be a rich king ; they gave him the 
third, that he should live long ; they gave to 
him, the child, virtues most good, so that 
he was most generous of all men alive : 
This the elves gave him, and thus the child 
thrived. ) 

The blank verse throughout each of 
the twelve Idylls varies according to the 
subject. 

[Examples of blank verse : 

With three beats — 
And Balin by the bdnneret of his h^lm. 

With four beats — 
For hdte and 16athing would have ptiss'd 
him by'. 



NOTES 



963 



With five beats — 
In whfch he scarce could spy' the Chrfst 
for saints. 

With six beats — 
What, weAr ye stfU the same cr6wn- 
scdndalous ? 

With seven beats — 
The tw6-c6ird heart bedting with 6ne full 
str6ke. Ed. ] 

P. 309, col. I, Hne 5. For many a petty 
king. This explains the existence of 
Leodogran, one of the petty princes. 
" Cameliard is apparently," according to 
Wright, ' ' the district called Carmelide in 
the English metrical romance of Merlin, 
on the border of which was a town called 
' Breckenho' (Brecknock)." — T. Wright's 
edition of the Mort d' Arthure (London : 
J, R. Smith), vol. i. p. 40. 

P. 309, col. I, line 13. For first A^irelius. 
Aurelius (Emrys) Ambrosius was brother 
of King Uther. [For the histories of 
Aurelius and Uther see Geoffrey of Mon- 
mouth's Chronicle, Bks. v. and vi. — Ed,] 

P. 309, col. I, line 17. Table Round. 
A table called King Arthur's is kept at 
Winchester. It was supposed to symbolise 
the world, being flat and round. 

P. 309, col. I, line 18. 
Drew all their petty princedoms tinder him. 
The several petty princedoms were under 
one head, the "pendragon." 

P. 309, col. 2, line 3. mock their foster- 
mother. Imitate the wolf by going on 
four feet. 

P. 309, col. 2, line 4. 
Till, straighten d, they grew np to wolf -like 

men. 
Compare what is told of in some parts of 
India {Journal of Anthropological Society 
of Bombay, vol. i.), and of the loup-garous 
and were -wolves of France and Germany. 

P. 309, col. 2, line 6. Groan d for the 
Roman legions. Cf. Groans of the Britons, 
by Gildas. 

P. 309, col. 2, line 8. UHen. King of 
North Wales. 

P. 309, col. 2, line 22. 
The goldeti symbol of his kinglihood. 
The golden dragon. 



P. 310, col. I, line 3. The heathen. 
Angles, Jutes, and Saxons. 

P. 311, col. I, line 6. his warrior whom 
he loved. [Cf. p. 316, col. i, lines 8, 9. 
—Ed.] 

P. 312, col. I, line 6. 
Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea. 

[I have a note of my father's touching a 
visit to Tintagil in 1887: "The woman 
who inhabits the house below the castle 
knew me again in 1887, after forty years, 
and began quoting passages from the 
Idylls. We were nearly swamped landing 
in Arthur's cave. After landing I was 
pulled up the cliff by the barefooted sailors. " 
He pictured to himself Iseult there when 
the cliff was " crown'd with towers." 
He examined what he called ' ' the secret 
postern " arch, through which the babe 
Arthur had been handed to Merlin. All 
the old memories and visions of the Idylls 
came upon him, and he regarded the whole 
place with a kind of first-love feeling. — Ed. ] 

P. 312, col. I, line 9. the Queen of 
Orkney. The kingdom of Orkney and 
Lothian composed the North and East of 
Scotland. 

P. 312, col. 2, line 18. the people 
clamoni'd for a king. Wherefore all the 
commons cried at once, ' ' We will have 
Arthur unto our king " (Malory, Bk. i, ). 

P. 313, col. I, line 6. body enow = 
strength. 

P. 313, col. I, line 29. three fair queens. 
[Cf. note to Morte d' Afihur, p. 912. — Ed.] 

P. 313, col. 2, line 6. the Lady of the 
Lake in the old legends is the Church. 

P. 313, col. 2, line 14. A voice as of the 
waters. Cf. "I heard a voice from heaven, 
as the voice of many waters " (Rev. xiv. 2). 

P. 313, col. 2, hne 18. Fxcalibvr. 
Said to mean " cut - steel. " In the 
Romance of Merlin the sword bore the 
following inscription : 

' ' Ich am y-hote Escalabore 
Vnto a king a fair tresore." 
and it is added : 

" On Inglis is this writing 
Kerve steel and yren and al thing." 



964 



NOTES 



P. 315, col. I, line 6. [Every ninth 
wave is supposed by the Welsh bards to 
be larger than those that go before. — Ed. ] 

P. 315, col. I, line 32. Rain, rain, and 
su7i! [The truth appears in different guise to 
different persons — either (i) with spiritual 
significance as a rainbow in the sky, or as 
(2) with earthly significance as a rainbow 
on the lea in the dewy grass. ] The one fact 
is that man comes from the great deep and 
returns to it. This is an echo of the triads 
of the Welsh bards. [Cf. Gareth and 
Lynette, p. 32 i2, col. i, line 23 : 
Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards ? 
' Confusion, and illusion, and relation. 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion ' ? 

Ed.] 

P. 316, col. I, line 14. Dubric, Arch- 
bishop of Caerleon. His crozier is said to 
be at St. David's. 

P. 316, col. I, line 16. The stateliest of 
her altar-shrines. According to Malory, 
the Church of St. Stephen at Camelot. 

P. 316, col. 2, lines 8, 9. 
Great Lords from Rome before the portal 

stood, 
hi scornful stillness gazing as they past. 
Because Rome had been the Lord of Britain. 

P. 316, col. 2, line 13. Blow tru7npet,etc. 
[My father wrote to my mother that this 
Viking song, a pendant to Merlin's song, 
"rings like a grand music." This and 
Leodogran's dream give the drift and grip 
of the poem, which describes the aspirations 
and ambitions of Arthur and his knights, 
doomed to downfall — the hints of coming 
doom being heard throughout. — Ed.] 

P. 317, col. I, line 5. for our Sun is 
mightier day by day. [Contrast p. 468, col. 
2, line I, " Burn'd at his lowest." — Ed.] 

P. 317, col. 2, line 6. your Roman 
■wall. A line of forts built by Agricola 
betwixt the Firth of Forth and the Clyde, 
forty miles long. 

P. 317, col. 2, line 12. twelve great 
battles. [See Lancelot and Elaine, p. 400. 
—Ed. ] 

THE ROUND TABLE 
P. 317. Gareth and Lynette. [The 
story is founded on Malory, Book vii. 



First published in 1872. Mostly written 
at Aldworth. My mother writes, Oct. 7th, 
1869: "He gave me his beginning of 
Beaumains (Sir Gareth) (the golden time 
of Arthur's Court) to read (written, as was 
said jokingly, ' to describe a pattern youth 
for his boys ' ). " 

Edward FitzGerald's comment is: "I 
have a word to say about ' Gareth. ' I 
don't think it is mere Perversity which 
makes me like it better than all its Pre- 
decessors, except of course the old 
'Morte. ' The subject, the young Knight 
who can endure and conquer, interests me 
more than all the Heroines of the ist 
Volume. I do not know if I admire more 
Separate Passages in this Idyll than in the 
others : for I have admired Ma7iy in All. 
But I do admire Several here very 
much : — 

The Journey to Camelot, 

All Gareth's Vassalage, 

Departure with Lynette, 

Sitting at Table with the Barons, 

Phantom of Past Life, 
and many other Passages and Expressions 
quae nunc perscribere longum est."- — Ed.] 

P. 317, col. I, line 3. the spate, the 
river in flood. 

P. 317, col. 2, line 8. Heaven yield her 
for it. [" Yield "=: reward, cf. Hamlet, 
IV. V. 41, and Antony and Cleopatra, iv. 
ii. 33.— Ed.] 

P. 318, col. I, line 2. 

In ever-highering eagle-circles up. 
He invents a verb in his youthful exuber- 
ance. 

P. 318, col. I, line 6. Gawain. Gawain 
and Modred, brothers of Gareth. 

P. 318, col. 2, line 2. leash of kings,. 
three kings. Cf. a leash of dogs. 

P. 320, col. 2, line 7. his outward pur- 
pose =h\s purpose to go. 

P. 321, col. I, line 19. The Lady of the 
Lake. The Lady of the Lake in the old 
romances of Lancelot instructs him in the 
mysteries of the Christian faith. 

P. 321, col. I, line 32. those three 
Queens. [Cf. note to Morte d' Arthur, 
p. 912. — Ed.] 



NOTES 



96s 



P. 321, col. 2, line 3. dragon-buuglits, 
bends (German Beugeii), folds of the 
dragons' tails. 

[" His huge long tayle, wownd up in 
hundred foldes, 
Does overspred his long bras-scaly back, 
Whose wreathed boughtes whenever he 

unfoldes, 
And thick entangled knots adown does 
slack ..." 

Spenser's Faery Queen, Bk. I. 
Canto XI. Ver. xi. 

' ' And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of Hnked sweetness long drawn out . . ." 
Milton's V Allegro, 139. — Ed.] 

P. 321, col. 2, line 10. 
From out thereunder came an ancient man. 
Merlin. 

P. 321, col. 2, lines 23, 24. 

/ have seen the good ship sail 
Keel upward, and mast downward, in the 

heavens. 
Refraction by mirage. 

P. 321, col. 2, line 27. 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me 
is ironical. 

P. 321, col. 2, line 31. Toward the 
sunrise. The religions and the arts that 
came from the East. 

P. 322, col. I, lines 12, 13. 

hit abide 
Without, amo?ig the cattle of the field. 

Be a mere beast. 

P. 322, col. I, lines 15, 16. 
They are building still, seeing the city is 

built 
To music. 
By the Muses. 

P. 322, col. 2, line 12. spire to heaven. 
Symbolizing the divine. 

P. 323, col. 2, line 7. Sir Kay, the 
seneschal. In the Roman de la Rose Sir 



Kay is given as a pattern of rough dis- 
courtesy : 

En Keux le s^Mieschal te mire 
Qui jadis par son mokdis 
Fu mal renomm^s et hais. 
Tant cum Gauvains li bien apris 
Par sa courtoisie ot le pris, 
Autretant ot de blasme Keus, 
Por ce qu'il fu fel et crueus, 
Ramponieres et mal-parliers 
Desus tous autres chevaliers. 

2100-2108. 

P. 323, col. 2, lines 8 ff. A boon, Sir 
King, etc. ["Now aske," said King 
Arthur, ' ' and yee shall have your petition. 
i " Now, sir," said he, "this is my petition 
for this feast that ye shall give me meate 
and drinke sufficiently for these twelve 
monethes, and at that day I will aske mine 
other two giftes. " " My faire sonne, ' ' said 
King Arthur, "aske better I counsaile 
thee, for this is but a simple asking, for my 
heart giveth mee to thee greatly that thou 
art come of men of worship, and greatly 
my conceit faileth me but thou shalt prove 
a man of right great worship" (Malory). 
— Ed.] 

P. 325, col. I, lines 6, 7. 

lVa?z-sallow as the plant that feels itself 

Root-bitten by white lichen. 
One of my cypresses at Farringford died in 
this way. 

P. 325, col. I, Hne 9. brewis, broth. 

P. 325, col. I, line 27. Sir Fair -hands. 
[Kay says in the Morte d' Arthjir, "And 
sithen he hath no name, I shall give him a 
name, that shall be Beaumains — that is to 
say, Faire hands." — Ed.] 

P. 325, col. 2, line 9. broach, spit, 

P. 325, col. 2, line 23. Caer-Eryri, 
Snowdon. 

P. 328, col. 2, lines 20, 21. 

Dull-coated things, that making slide apart 

Their dusk wing-cases. 
Certain insects which have brilliant bodies 
underneath dull wing-cases. [Cf. The Two 
Voices, p. 31, lines 8-15 : 
'To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 



966 



NOTES 



An inner impulse rent the veil 

Of his old husk : from head to tail 

Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

He dried his wings : like gauze they grew ; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light lie flew.' 

Ed.] 
P. 329, col. I, lines 6-10. 

but as the cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights -with, ere his 

cause 
Be coord by fighting, follows, being named. 
His owner, but remembers all, and growls 
Rejuembering. 

When we lived in Kent we had two 
large dogs, one a large white one, an un- 
educated ruffian always chained to an 
apple-tree, the other a larger black one and 
much more of a gentleman. One day 
while I was passing with this last too near 
the tree, the white one seized hold of him 
and tore his ear. Then followed a duel. 
I separated them with some difficulty and 
then took my dark friend on a walk of 
some six miles. All the way out and half 
the way back he growled and swore to 
himself about every five minutes. 

P. 329, col. 2, line 21. agaric in the holt, 
an evil-smelling fungus of the wood com- 
mon at Aldworth. 

P. 330, col. I, line 2. shoulder -slipt, 
shoulder-dislocated. 

P. 330, col. 2, lines 13-28. there brake a 
serving-man to oilily bubbled tip the mere. 
["So as they thus rode in the wood, there 
came a man flying all that he might. 
' Whither wilt thou ? ' said Beaumains. 
' O lord,' said he, ' helpe mee, for hereby 
in a shade are six theeves which have taken 
my lord, and bound him, and I am afraid 
least they will slay him.' 'Bring me 
thither,' said Sir Beaumains. And so they 
came there as the knight was bound, and 
then he rode into the theeves, and strake 
one at the first stroke to death, and then 
another, and the third strooke he slew the 
third theefe ; and then the other three fled, 
and hee rod after and overtooke them, and 
then these three theeves turned again and 
hard assailed Sir Beaumains : but at the 
last hee slew them ; and then returned and 
unbound the knight" (Malory). — Ed.] 



P. 331, col. 2, line 11. frontless, shame- 
less. 

P. 331, col. 2, line 21. peacock in his 
pride, brought in on the trencher with his 
tail-feathers left. [When it was served, 
• ' all the guests, male and female, took a 
solemn vow ; the knights vowing bravery, 
and the ladies engaging to be loving and 
faithful ' ' (Stanley's History of Birds). — Ed. ] 

P. 332, col. I, lines 22, 23. 
My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay 
Amotig the ashes and wedded the King's son. 
" Hers " is Cinderella's. 

P. 332, col. I, line 25. ofie of those long 
loops. The three loops of the river typify 
the three ages of life ; and the guardians at 
the crossing the temptations of these ages. 

P. 332, col. 2, line i. Lent-lily, daffodil. 

P. 332, col. 2, line 20. 

Like sparkles iti the stone Avanturine. 
Avanturine, sometimes called the Panther- 
stone — a kind of gray-green or brown 
quartz with sparkles in it. 

[The first reading was : 

Like stars within the stone Avanturine. 
This simile was taken from a fine piece of 
the stone Avanturine, set in an etui-case 
belonging to my mother. "Look at it," 
my father said, " see the stars in it, worlds 
within worlds." — Ed.] 

P. 334, col. I, lines 24, 25. 

As if the flower, 
That blows a globe of after arr owlets. 
The dandehon. 

P. 334, col. 2, line 27. tinhappiness, 
mischance. 

P. 335, col. I, line 17. tivice my love 
hath smiled on me. [Because of his having 
overthrown two knights. A light has 
broken on her. Her morning dream has 
twice proved true, that she should find a 
worthy champion. — Ed.] 

P. 335, col. 2, line 8. only wrapt in 
harden d skins. Allegory of habit. 

P. 335, col. 2, line 12. 
O brother-star, why shine ye here so low ? 
[Gareth has taken the shield of the 
Morning-Star (p. 332). — Ed.] 



J 



NOTES 



967 



P. 337, col. I, lines 27-29. 

Hai/z left crag-carvefi o'er the streaming 
Gelt— 

' Phosphorus,' then ' Meri dies' — ' Hes- 
perus' — 

' No.x' — ' Mors,' beneath Jive figures, 
armed men. 

[Symbolical of the temptations of youth, 
of middle-age, of later life, and of death 
overcome by the youthful and joyous 
Gareth.— Ed.] 

Years ago, when I was visiting the 
Howards at Naworth Castle, I drove over 
to the little river Gelt to see the inscription 
carved upon the crags. It seemed to me 
very pathetic, this sole record of the 
vexillary or standard-bearer of the sacred 
Legion (Augusta). This is the inscription : 

VEX • LLEG • II AVG • ON • AP • APRO E 
MAXIMO CONSULIBUS SUB AGRICOLA OP • 
OFICINA MERCATI. 

P. 338, col. 2, lines 23-25. 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world were 

one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness ! 

Lines made at Aldworth on a summer 
night on the lawn about the honeysuckle 
that climbs up the house. 

P, 339, col. I, line 18. Arthurs harp, 
Lyra. 

P. 340, col. I, line 12. glootning crimson, 
sunrise. 

P. 340, col. I, lines 22-26. ["'Sir,' 
said thedamosell Lynet unto Sir Beaumains, 
' look that yee be merry and light, for yonder 
is your deadly enemy, and at yonder 
window is my lady my sister dame Lyones.' 
' Where ? ' said Sir Beaumains. ' Yonder,' 
said the damosell, and pointed with her 
finger. ' That is sooth, ' said Sir Beaumains, 
' shee seemeth afarre the fairest lady that I 
ever looked upon, and truely,' said hee, 
' I aske no better quarrell than now to doe 
battaile, for truely shee shall bee my lady, 
and for her will I fight' " (Malory). — Ed.] 

P. 340, col. 2, line i. And crown d 
with feshless laughter. With a grinning 
skull. 



P. 341, col. I, lines 18, 20. [He that 
told the tale i?i older ti?nes — Malory. He 
that told it later — my father. — Eo.] 

P. 341. The Marriage of Geraint, 
[In 1857 six copies of Enid and Nimu'e : 
the True and the False were printed. This 
Idyll is founded on Geraint, son of Erbin, 
in the Mabinogion, translated by Lady 
Charlotte Guest, and has ' ' brought the 
story within compass." It was begun on 
April i6th, 1856, and first published in 
1859 in the Idylls of the King. My father 
had also read Erec and E?iid, by Chrestien 
de Troyes. The greater part of the Idylls 
contained in the volume of 1859 was 
written at Farringford. But the end of 
Geraint and Enid was written in July and 
August of 1856 in Wales, where he read, 
in the original, Ha?ies Cymru (Welsh his- 
tory), the Mabi7iogion, and Llywarch Hen. 

The first four Idylls were, as Edward 
FitzGerald notes of the earlier poems, 
"written on foolscap folio Parchment, 
bound blank books such as Accounts are 
kept on (only not ruled), which I used to 
call 'The Butcher's Book.' The Poems 
were written in A. T.'s very fine Hand (he 
once said, not thinking of himself, that 
Great Men generally write ' terse ' hands) 
toward one Side of the large Page : the 
unoccupied Pages and Edges and Corners 
being often stript down for pipe-lights, 
taking care to save the MS. , as A. T. once 
seriously observed." 

The other Idylls were written on smaller 
blue and red bound books, bound by my 
mother, — Ed. ] 

P. 342, col. I, line i. Of Severn. 
Geraint was at Caerleon, and would have 
to cross the Bristol Channel to go to Devon. 

P. 342, col. I, line i. past. I like the 
t — the strong perfect in verbs ending in s, 
p, and X — past, slipt, vext. 

P. 342, col. I, line 33. As slopes a 
wild brook. I made this simile from a 
stream, and it is different, tho' like Theo- 
critus, Idyll xxii. 48 ff. : 
kv 6^ jxm% (XTepeotai ^paxi-oaiv &Kpov vir' 

Cj/ulov 
'^(TTacrav, ijVTe irerpoL oXoirpoxot, ov<TTe 

KiiXlfduji/ 
Xetfxdppovs iroTafxbs /xeydXais irepie^eae 
diuats. 



968 



NOTES 



[When some one objected that he had 
taken this simile from Theocritus, he 
answered : " It is quite different. Geraint's 
muscles are not compared to the rounded 
stones, but to the stream pouring vehe- 
mently over them." — Ed.] 

P. 343, col. I, line 20. sprigs of summer, 
lavender. 

P. 343, col. I, line 28. Caerleon. 
Arthur's capital, " castra Legionis," is in 
Monmouthshire on the Usk, which flows 
into the Bristol Channel. 

P. 343, col. 2, line 31. of deepest mouth. 
Cf. "match'd in mouth like bells" {Mid- 
summer-Night's Dream, I v. i. 128). 

P. 345, col. I, line 21. pips, a bird- 
disease. 

P. 346, col. I, line 3. 
And like a crag was gay with wilding 

flowers. 
These lines were made at Middleham 
Castle. 

P. 346, col. I, line 7. 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy -fibred 

arms. 
Tintern Abbey. 

P. 346, col. I, line 31. 
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower 
the proud. 
[This song of noble and enduring 
womanhood has its refrain in 

Pero giri Fortuna la sua ruota. 
Come le place. 

Dante, Inf. xv. 95. — Ed.] 

P. 346, col. 2, line 19. by God's rood. 
Rood (originally the same as "rod") is 
the old word for cross. 

P. 347, col. I, line 10. costrel, a bottle 
with ear or ears, by which it could be hung 
from the waist (costrer, by the side), hence 
sometimes called "pilgrim's bottle." 

P. 347, col. I, line 13. manchet bread, 
little loaves or rolls made of fine wheat 
flour. 

P. 348, col. I, line 7. When I that 
knew, etc. [In the Mabinogio7i Earl Yniol 



is the wrong-doer, and has earned his 
reward ; but the poet has made the story 
more interesting and more poetic by mak- 
ing the tale of wrong-doing a calumny on 
the part of the Earl's nephew. 

' ' And when they had finished eating, 
Geraint talked with the hoary-headed man, 
and he asked him in the first place, to 
whom belonged the palace that he was in. 
'Truly,' said he, 'it was I that built it, 
and to me also belonged the city and the 
castle which thou sawest. ' ' Alas ! ' said 
Geraint, ' how is it that thou hast lost them 
now ? ' 'I lost a great earldom as well as 
these,' said he, 'and this is how I lost 
them. I had a nephew, the son of my 
brother, and I took his possessions to my- 
self; and when he came to his strength, 
he demanded of me his property, but I 
withheld it from him. So he made war 
upon me, and wrested from me all that 
I possessed ' " (Lady Charlotte Guest's 
Mabinogion, p. 147). In the Idyll, for 
the greater unity of the tale, the nephew 
and the knight of the Sparrow-hawk are 
one. — Ed.] 

P. 349, col. I, lines 22, 23. 

ever fait d to draw 
The quiet night into her blood. 
[Cf. 

neque unquam 
Solvitur in somnos, oculisve aut pectore 

noctem 
Accipit. Virgil, Aen. iv. 529. — Ed.] 

P. 349, col. I, line 28. jousts. From 
juxtare. Low Latin, to approach. 

P. 349, col. I, line 34. chair of Idris. 
Idris was one of the three primitive Bards. 
Cader Idris, the noblest mountain next to 
Snowdon in N. \^'^ales. 

[My mother writes, Sept. 8th, 1856 : 
"A. climbed Cader Idris. Pouring rain 
came on. ... I heard the roar of waters, 
streams and cataracts, and I never saw 
anything more awful than that great veil of 
rain drawn straight over Cader Idris, pale 
light at the lower edge. It looked as if 
death were behind it." — Ed.] 

P. 349, col. 2, lines 21, 22. 

from distant walls 
There came a clapping. 
This is the echo of the sword-clash. 



NOTES 



969 



P. 350, col. I, line 26. Made a low 
splendour, etc. [In the dim yellow light of 
dawn at Farringford my father used to 
delight in watching the dancing shadows 
of the birds and of the long swaying fingers 
of the cedar tree on the door opposite his 
bed.— Ed.] 

Pp- 35°' 351 ff- [This episode is 
founded on the following passage in Lady 
Charlotte Guest's Mabiiiogion (p. 85) ; 
" ' Where is the Earl Yniol,' said Geraint, 
' and his wife, and his daughter ? ' ' They 
are in the chamber yonder,' said the Earl's 
chamberlain, ' arraying themselves in gar- 
ments which the Earl has caused to be 
brought for them.' 'Let not the damsel 
array herself, ' said he, ' except in her vest 
and her veil, until she come to the court of 
King Arthur, to be clad by Gwenhwyvar, 
in such garments as she may choose. ' So 
the maiden did not array herself." — Ed.] 

P. 352, col. 2, line 4. that maiden i?i 
the tale. The tale of Math, son of Math- 
onwy. ' ' So they took the blossoms of 
the oak, and the blossoms of the broom, 
and the blossoms of the meadowsweet, 
and produced from them a maiden, the 
fairest and most graceful that man ever 
saw. And they baptized her and gave her 
the name of Blodenwedd (flower-vision)." 
— Mabinogion, p. 426. 

P. 352, col. 2, line 6. the bride of 
Cassivelaim. [The love of a British 
maiden named Flur, who was betrothed 
to Cassivelaunus, according to the Welsh 
legend, led Caesar to invade Britain 
[Mabinogion, p. 392). — Ed.] 

P. 352, col. 2, line 26. flaws in summer. 
[Cf. Hamlet, v. i. 230, " the winter's 
flaw ' ' — gusts of wind. — Ed, ] 

P. 352, col. 2, hne 36. 

As careful robins eye the delvers toil. 

[This line was made one day while my 
father was digging, as was his wont then, 
in the kitchen garden at Farringford, when 
he was much amused by the many watch- 
ful robins round him. — Ed.] 

P- 353> col. 2, line 12. gaudy-day. 
[Holiday — now only used of special feast- 
days at the Universities. — Ed.] 



P. 354. Geraint and Enid. [First 
published in 1859. The Marriage of 
Geraint and Geraint and Efiid were 
originally one poem, and were divided 
into two Idylls in 1888. The sin of 
Lancelot and Guinevere begins to breed, 
even among those who would ' ' rather 
die than doubt," despair and want of 
trust in God and man. — Ed.] 

P. 354, line I. 

O purblind race of miserable men, etc. 
[Cf. Lucretius, ii. 14 : 
O miseras hominum mentes, O pectora 
caeca, etc. Ed.] 

P. 356, col. 2, line 29 to p. 357, col. i, 
"^^ 4. as one, 

That listens near a torrent moimtain-brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear 
His voice in battle. 

A memory of what I heard near Festiniog, 
but the scenery imagined is vaster. 
[My father agreed with Wordsworth that 
much of poetry takes its origin from emotion 
remembered in tranquillity. — Ed.] 

P. 358, col. I, line 14. doom, judgment. 

P. 359, col. 2, line 12. 

My malice is no deeper thaji a moat. 
[ = 1 will not kill him, but I will put him 
in prison. — Ed.] 

P. 360, col. I, line 26. the red cock 
shouti?tg to the light. [Cf. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm 
upon the hill. 

May Queen, p. 51. — Ed.] 

P. 361, col. 2, line i. like a thunder- 
cloud. The horse's mane is compared to 
the skirts of the rain-cloud. 

P. 361, col. 2, line 33. shall we fast, or 
di7ie f Shall we go hungry, or shall we 
take his spoils and pay for our dinner with 
them? 

P. 361, col. 2, line 34. No'? — then do 
thou. Enid shrinks from taking anything 
from her old lover. 

P. 364, col. I, line 6. as the worm draws 
in the wither d leaf. I used to watch worms 



970 



NOTES 



drawing in withered leaves on the lawn at 
Farringford. 

[My father would quote this simile as 
good, and that in Merlin and Vivien, p. 
395, col. I, line 24 : 

The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 
Took gayer colours, like an opal warm'd. 

Ed.] 

P. 364, col. 2, line 25. 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman s weed. 

"Weed," A.S. woed, garment. [Cf. 
Midsnmmer-Nighf s Dream, 11. i. 256 : 
" Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in," 
and elsewhere in Shakespeare. — Ed.] 

P. 365, col. I, lines 4, 5. 
Play'd into green, and thicker dowji the 

front 
With jewels thafi the sward with drops of 

dew. 
I made these lines on the High Down one 
morning at Freshwater. 

P. 365, col. I, line 10. their day of 
poiuer. The worst tyrants are those who 
have long been tyrannised over, if they 
have tyrannous natures. 

P. 368, col. 2, line 24. the sacred Dee. 
Cf. 

" Where Deva spreads her wizard stream." 
Lycidas, 55. 

P. 368, col. 2, line 30. weed the white 
horse. The white horse near Wantage 
on the Berkshire hills which commemorates 
the victory at Ashdown of the English 
under Alfred over the Danes (871). The 
white horse was the emblem of the English 
or Saxons, as the raven was of the Danes, 
and as the dragon was of the Britons. 

P. 369, col. I, line 29. A happy life 
with a fair death. [Llywarch Hen's 
elegy on Geraint's death in the battle of 
Llongborth, believed by some to have been 
Portsmouth, is well known. See Lady 
Charlotte Guest's Mabinogion, vol. ii. pp. 
150-151 :— 

" Before Geraint, the terror of the foe, 
I saw steeds fatigued with the toil of 

battle. 
And after the shout was given, how- 
dreadful was the onset. 



At Llongborth I saw the tumult 
And the slain drenched in gore. 
And red -stained warriors from the 
assault of the foe. 

Before Geraint, the scourge of the enemy, 
I saw steeds white with foam. 
And after the shout of battle, a fearful 
torrent. 



At 



ragmg 



of 



the 



Llongborth I saw the 

slaughter 
And an excessive carnage. 
And warriors blood-stained from 

assault of Geraint. 

At Llongborth was Geraint slain, 

A valiant warrior from the woodlands of 

Devon 
Sla;ightering his foes as he fell." Ed.] 

P. 369. Balin and Balan. [Partly 
founded on Bk. ii. of Malory, written mostly 
at Aldworth, soon after Gareth a?id Lynette, 
and first published in 1885. The story of 
the poem is largely original. ' ' Loyal 
natures are wrought to anger and madness 
against the world." — Ed.] 

P. 369, col. 2, lines 19-21. 
to right and left the spring, that down, 
From underneath a plujne of lady-fern. 
Sang, and the sand daticed at the bottom of it. 

[Suggested by a spring which rises near 
the house at Aldworth. — Ed.] 

P. 371, col, I, hne 27 to col 2, line i. 
his soul 
Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life 
Was wounded by blind tongJies he saw not 

whence. 
Strikes from behind. 
[Symbolic of Slander. — Ed. ] 

P. 372, col. 2, line 9. Langued gules 
[red-tongued — language of heraldry. — Ed.] 

P. 373. col. I, lines 13 ff. [This simile 
beginning 
Thus as a hearth lit in a mountain home 
was suggested by what he often saw from 
his own study at Aldworth : the fire in the 
grate at night reflected in the window, 
and seemingly a fire raging in the wood- 
land below. — Ed. ] 

P. 375, col. 2, lines 5 fF. [The goblet 
is embossed with scenes from the story of 
Joseph of Arimathea, his voyage, and the 



NOTES 



971 



wattle-built church he raised at Glaston- 
bury. King Pellam represents the type of 
asceticism and superstition. — Ed.] 

Pp. 375-376. See for a passage of rapid 
blank verse (where the pauses are light, 
and the accentuated syllables under the 
average —some being short in quantity, 
and the narrative brief and animated), 
He rose, desce7ided io face to grou?id. 

P. 380. Merlin and Vivien. 

[For the name of Vivien my father is 
indebted to the old Romance of Merliji. 
Begun in February and finished on March 
31st, 1856, and first published in 1859. 
' ' Some even among the highest intellects 
become the slaves of the evil which is at 
first half disdained." My father created 
the character of Vivien with much care — 
as the evil genius of the Round Table ^ — 
who in her lustfulness of the flesh could not 
believe in anything either good or great. 

The story of the poem of Merlin a?id 
Vivien is essentially original, and was 
founded on the following passage from 
Malory : 

' ' Merlin was assetted and doted on one 
of the ladies of the lake (Nimue). But 
Merlin would let her have no rest, but 
always he would be with her. . . . And 
always Merlin lay about the lady to have 
her love. . . . But she was ever passing 
weary of him, and fain would have been 
delivered of him, for she was afeard of 
him because he was a devil's son, and she 
could not put him away by no means. 
And so on a time it happed that Merlin 
shewed to her in a rock, whereas was a 
great wonder and wrought by enchantment 
that went under a great stone. So by her 
subtle working she made Merlin to go 
under that stone, to let her wit of the 
marvels there, but she wrought so there 
for him that he came never out for all the 
craft that he could do. And so she 
departed and left Merlin." — Bk. iv. ch. i. 
—Ed.] 

P. 380, line 2. Broceliande. The forest 
of Broceliand in Brittany near St. Malo. 

P. 382, col. I, line 21. 
Ride, ride ajid dream until ye wake — to me! 

1 Even to the last. See Guinevere, p. 457, 
col. 2, lines 8, 9. 



The only real bit of feeling, and the only 
pathetic line which Vivien speaks. 

P. 382, col. I, line 28 to col. 2, line 2. 
\_Seeling, sewing up eyes of hawk. Jesses, 
straps of leather fastened to legs. Check 
at pies, fly at magpies. Nor will she rake, 
nor will she fly at other game. — Ed.] 

P. 382, col. 2, line 6. tower d, soared. 

P. 382, col. 2, line 10. pounced her 
quarry [swooped on her game.— Ed.]. 

P. 382, col. 2, lines 22, 23. 

Thereafter as an enemy that has left 
Death iti the living waters. 
Poisoned the wells. 
P. 383, col. 2, line 9. 
An ever-moaning battle in the 7nist. 
The vision of the battle at the end. 
P. 384, col, I, line 15. 

As on a dull day in a?i. Ocean cave. 
This simile is taken from what I saw in 
the Caves of Ballybunion. 

P. 385, col. I, lines 8-10. 
O did ye never lie upon the shore, 
And watch the curl'd white of the coming 

ivave 
Glass d in the slippery sand before it breaks f 

I thought of these lines at Alum Bay in 
the Isle of Wight if anywhere. 

P. 386, col. 2, line 25. 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower. 
As seen from a hill in Yorkshire, 

P. 386, col. 2, line 27. 
Far other was the song that once I heard. 

The song about the clang of battle- 
axes, etc., in the Coming of Arthur. 

P. 388, col. 2, hnes 4-6. 

a single misty star. 
Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a stuord beneath a belt of three. 

6 Ononis — the nebula in which is im- 
bedded the great multiple star. When 
this was written some astronomers fancied 
that this nebula in Orion was the vastest 
object in the Universe — a firmament of 
suns too far away to be resolved into stars 
by the telescope, and yet so huge as to be 
seen by the naked eye. 



972 



NOTES 



[My father often pondered on the 
nothingness of human fame by comparison 
with the charm of those immense spatial 
and temporal cosmic weavings and wav- 
ings. — Ed. ] 

. P, 389, col. I, line 11 to col. 2, line 
24. There lived a kivg to the gateway 
towers. People have tried to discover this 
legend, but there is no legend of the kind 
that I know of. 

P. 390, col. I, line 9 to col. 2, line 11. 
He answer' d laughing to came down to me. 
Nor is this a legend to be found. 

P. 390, col. I, line 26. lash'd, like 
an eyelash. A German translation has 
peitschte (whipt it), but — " eye " and ' ' eye- 
lid " having immediately preceded — the 
translator might have guessed better. 

P. 391, col. 2, line 3. the reckling [the 
puny infant. — Ed.]. 

P. 392, col. I, line 29. holy king, David. 

P. 395, col. I, line 14. white-listed, 
striped with white. 

P. 395. Lancelot and Elaine. 
[Begun at the home of G. F. Watts, 
R.A. , and of the Prinseps, Little Holland 
House, Kensington, in July 1858, and 
first published in 1859. "The tenderest 
of all natures sinks under the blight, that 
which is of the highest in her working her 
doom." See Malory, xviii. ch, 9-20. 
Jowett wrote of this Idyll : "It moves me 
like the love of Juliet in Shakespeare. . . . 
There are hundreds and hundreds of all 
ages (and men as well as women) who, 
although they have not died for love (have 
no intention of doing so), will find there 
a sort of ideal consolation of their own 
troubles and remembrances." — Ed.] 

P. 395, line 2. Astolat, said to be 
Guildford. 

P. 396, col. I, hne 22. Lyonnesse. A 
land that is said to have stretched between 
Land's End and Scilly, and to have con- 
tained some of Cornwall as well. 

P. 399, col. I, Hues 20-22. 
That some one put this diamond in her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt a7id fell itito some pool or stream. 

A vision prophetic of Guinevere hurling 
the diamonds into the Thames. 



P. 400. [For these battles see Nennius, 
Hist. Brit. § 50, in Bohn's translation : 
' ' Thus it was that the magnanimous 
Arthur, with all the kings and military 
force of Britain, fought against the Saxons. 
And though there were many more noble 
than himself, yet he was twelve times 
chosen their commander, and was as often 
conqueror. The first battle in which he 
was engaged was at the mouth of the 
river Glem. The second, third, fourth, 
and fifth were on another river, by the 
Britons called Duglas, in the region Linuis. 
The sixth on the river Bassas. The 
seventh in the wood Celidon, which the 
Britons call Cat Coit Celidon. The eighth 
was near Gurnion Castle, where Arthur 
bore the image of the Holy Virgin, mother 
of God, upon his shoulders, and through 
the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, and 
the holy Mary, put the Saxons to flight, 
and pursued them the whole day with 
great slaughter. The ninth was at the 
City of Legion, which is called Caerleon. 
The tenth was on the banks of the river 
Trat Treuroit. The eleventh was on the 
mountain Breguoin, which we call Cat 
Bregion. The twelfth was a most severe 
contest, when Arthur penetrated to the 
hill of Badon. In this engagement, nine 
hundred and forty fell by his hand alone, 
no one but the Lord affording him assist- 
ance. In all these engagements the 
Britons were successful. For no strength 
can avail against the will of the Almighty. " 
—Ed.] 

P. 400, col. 2, line 10. white Horse. 
[See note on p. 368, col. 2, line 30. — Ed.] 

P. 401, col. I, line 17. rathe, early 
(thence "rather "). 

P. 401, col. I, line 20. 
Down the \ long tow | er-stairs, | hesit \ ating. 

' ' Stairs " is to be read as a monosyllable, 
with a pause after it. 

[Spedding writes : ' ' The art with which 
A. T. has represented Elaine's action by 
the slow and lingering movement, the 
sudden arrest, and the hesitating advance 
of the metre, has been altogether lost on 
some critics." — Ed.] 

P. 401, col. I, line 37 to col. 2, line 
13. ["So thus as shee came too and fro, 



NOTES 



973 



shee was so hoot in her love that shee 
besought Sir Launcelot to weare upon him 
at the justes a token of hers. ' Faire 
damosell,' said Sir Launcelot, 'and if I 
graunt )''ou that, yee may say I doe more 
for your love than ever I did for lady 
or damosell. ' . . . And then hee said, 
' Faire damosell, I will graunt you to 
weare a token of yours upon my helmet, 
and therefore what it is, show me." ' Sir,' 
said shee, ' it is a red sleeve of mine of 
scarlet, well - embroadered with great 
pearles. ' And so shee brought it him" 
(Malory).— Ed.] 

P. 403, col. 2, lines 1-4. 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, 
Green -glimyne ring toward the summit, 

bears, with all 
Its storiny crests that smoke against the skies, 
Down on a bark. 
Seen on a voyage of mine to Norway. 

[" Next day (July 24th, 1858) very fine 
but in the night toward morning storm 
arose and our top-mast was broken off. I 
stood next morning a long time by the 
cabin door and watched the green sea 
looking like a mountainous country, far- 
off waves with foam at the top looking 
like snowy mountains bounding the scene ; 
one great wave, green-shining, past with 
all its crests smoking high up beside the 
vessel. As I stood there came a sudden 
hurricane and roared drearily in the funnel 
for twent)'^ seconds and past away " [Letter 
from my father to viy mother). — Ed.] 

P. 410, col. I, line 19. ghostly grace. 
Vision of Guinevere. 

P. 410, col. I, line 28. 

Then as a little helpless innocent bird. 
Chaffinch. 

Pp. 410-41 1. [" ' My lord Sir Launcelot, 
now I see that yee will depart : faire and 
curteous knight, have mercy upon mee, 
and suffer mee not to die for your love. ' 
' What would yee that I did ? ' said Sir 
Launcelot. ' I would have you unto my 
husband,' said the maide Elaine. 'Faire 
damosell, I thankeyou,' said Sir Launcelot ; 
•but certainly,' said he, ' I cast mee never 
to be married. ' . . . ' Alas, ' said she, 
' then must I needes die for your love ' " 
(Malory).— Ed.] 



P. 413, col. 2, lines 8, 9. 

never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
The noblest are ever subject to calumny. 

P. 415, col. I, line 6. 
/ hear of rwnours flying thro' your court. 
Rumours of his love for Elaine. 

P. 416, col. I, line 26 to col. 2, line 4. 
[" Most noble knight, my lord Sir Launcelot 
du Lake, now hath death made us two at 
debate for your love : I was your lover, 
that men called the faire maiden of Astolat : 
therefore unto all ladies I make my moane ; 
yet for my soule that yee pray, and bury 
me at the least, and offer yee my masse- 
peny. This is my last . request : and a 
cleane maide I died, I take God to my 
witnesse. Pray for my soule, Sir Launce- 
lot, as thou art a knight pearles " (Malory). 
—Ed.] 

P. 417, col. I, lines 17-25. 

So toward that shrine which then in all 
the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 
The mar shall' d Order of their Table Romtd, 
And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see 
The maiden buried, not as one tinknown, 
Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies. 
And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. 
And when the knights had laid her comely 

head 
Lozv in the dust of halfforgotten kings. 

This passage and the "tower-stair" 
passage (p. 401) are among the best blank 
verse in Lancelot and Elaine, I think. 

[I asked my father why he did not write 
an Idyll ' ' How Sir Lancelot came unto 
the hermitage, and how he took the habit 
unto him ; how he went to Almesbury and 
found Queen Guinevere dead, whom they 
brought to Glastonbury ; and how Sir 
Lancelot died a holy man " ; and he 
answered, " Because it could not be done 
better than by Malory." My father loved 
his own great imaginative knight, the 
Lancelot of the Idylls. — Ed. ] 

P. 418. The Holy Grail. [First 
published in i86g. See Malory, 13-17. 
The story of this Idyll is full of my father's 
invention and imagination. "Faith de- 
clines, religion in many turns from practical 



974 



NOTES 



goodness to the quest after the supernatural 
and marvellous and selfish religious excite- 
ment. Few are those for whom the quest 
is a source of spiritual strength." 

My mother notes in her Journal : ' ' 1868, 
Sept. gth. A. read a bit of his San Graal, 
which he has just begun. Sept. i^th. He 
has almost finished the Sa7i Graal. It 
came like a breath of inspiration. Sept. 
Q.yd. We took Lionel to Eton. ... At 
Dr. Warre's request A. read the San Graal 
MS. complete in the garden. 1869, May 
iSth. A. read the San (T?-aal. I doubt 
whether the Sa?t Graal would have been 
written but for my endeavour, and the 
Queen's wish, and that of the Crown 
Princess. Thank God for it. He has 
had the subject in his mind for years, ever 
since he began to write about Arthur and 
his knights." 

About this poem my father said to me : 
"At twenty-four I meant to write an epic 
or a drama of King Arthur, and I thought 
that I should take twenty years about the 
work. They will now say that I have been 
forty years about it. The Holy Grail is 
one of the most imaginative of my poems. 
I have expressed there my strong feeling 
as to the Reality of the Unseen. The 
end, where the King speaks of his work 
and of his visions, is intended to be the 
summing up of all in the highest note by 
the highest of men." 

These three lines (p. 433) in Arthur's 
speech are the (spiritually) central lines of 
the poem : 

In moments when he feels he cannot die. 
And knows himself no vision to himself, 
Nor the high God a vision. 

Sir James Knowles writes to me : — 

I was introduced to your father by King Arthur 
— for my little book on the Arthur legends, dedi- 
cated to him, first brought me to his acquaintance 
thirty-five years ago — and this probably explains 
why he chose to give me so much of his con- 
fidence on the subject of his Idylls of the King-. 
He used to say (in jest), " I know more about 
Arthur than any other man in England, and you 
know next most," and when, in 1867 and after- 
wards, he became our frequent guest at Clapham 
Common, he would talk with me for hours upon 
the subject, and I always urged him to resume 
his forsaken project of making a whole great 
poem on it. 

The recent and immense success of his first 
four Idylls helped my cause greatly, but he 



would constantly protest that it was next to im- 
possible now to put the thing properly together, 
because he had taken up with a fragmentary 
mode of treatment instead of the continuous sym- 
bolic epic he had meditated in his youth, and 
" which the Reviews had knocked out of him." 
Frequent importunity, however, had its effect, 
and in the end he came to admit that the plan of 
a series of separate pictures connected by a pur- 
pose running through them all, as a thread 
connects l)eads, had its merits, and, under the 
circumstances, had better be tried. 

He resumed his great scheme with The Holy 
Grail. 

As the revised plan took more and more shape 
and drew towards completion, he would some- 
times point his finger at me with a grim smile, 
and say : " 1 had given it all up long ago, though 
I was often urged to go on with it ; and then 
this beast said ' Do it,' and I did it." 

He always told me that he had from the begin- 
ning meant to make Arthur something more 
and other than a mystic or historic king, but 
that he had changed his mind from his original 
meaning. In 1869 he gave me a memorandum 
written in his own hand which he told me was then 
thirty or forty years old. He said that in those 
early days (about 1830) the poem was to be a sort 
of allegory of the Church, but that now King 
Arthur was to stand in a symbolic way for the 
Soul, and his Knights for the human passions 
which the Soul was to order and subdue. 

He encouraged me to write a short paper, in 
the form of a letter to the Spectator^ on the inner 
meaning of the whole poem, which I did, simply 
upon the lines he himself indicated. He often 
said, however, that an allegory should never be 
pressed too far, and that "there were many 
glancing meanings in everjthing he wrote." 

Considerable trouble and changing with pub- 
lishers went on during the production of the 
Idylls (of 1869), and he was so anxious about 
misprints that, for the greater security against 
errors, he caused the proofs of them to be sent 
to me as well as to himself. He would go over 
them with me in the most minute manner, and 
afterwards would write such letters as the 
following : 

Farringford, Freshwater, 
Isle of Wight, April ^, 1872. 

Gareth is not finished yet. I left him off once 
altogether, finding him more difficult to deal 
with than anything I had ever tried, excepting 
perhaps Aylmer's Field. If I were at liberty, 
which I think I am not, to print the names of 
the speakers "Gareth," " Linette," over the 
short snip-snap of their talk, and so avoid the 
perpetual "said" and its varieties, the work 
would be much easier. I have made out the 
plan, however, and perhaps some day it will be 
completed ", and it will be then to consider 
whether or no it should go into the Conteviporary 
or elsewhere. 

Edward FitzGerald's comment on The 
Holy Grail is : " The whole myth of 
Arthur's Round Table Dynasty in Britain 

1 See Appendix, Tenjtyson and his Friends. 



NOTES 



975 



presents itself before me with a sort of 
cloudy, Stonehenge grandeur. I am not 
sure if the old knights' Adventures do not 
tell upon me better, touched in some Lyric 
Way, like your own Lady of Shalott. I 
never could care for Spenser, Tasso, 
Ariosto, whose epic has a ballad ring 
about it. But I never could care much 
for the old Prose Romances eithei-, except 
Don Quixote. . . . They talk of ' meta- 
physical Depth and Subtlety.' Pray, is 
there none in T/te Pa/ace of Aii, The 
Vision of Sin (which last touches on the 
Limit of Disgust without ever falling in), 
Locksley Hall also, with some little Passion, 
I think ! only that all these being clear to 
the Bottom, as well as beautiful, do not 
seem to Cockney eyes so deep as Muddy 
Waters ? "—Eu. ] 

P. 419, col. I, line 6, 
O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke. 

The pollen in Spring, which, blown 
abroad by the wind, looks like smoke. 
Cf. Memoir, vol. ii. p. 53, and I?i 
Memoriam, xxxix. 

P. 419, col. 2, line 7. Aromat. Ari- 
mathea, the home of Joseph of Arimathea, 
who, according to the legend, received in 
tlie Grail the blood that flowed from our 
Lord's side. 

P. 419, col. 2, lines 8, 9. 

when the dead 
Went wanderiiig o'er Moriah. 
[Cf. St. Matthew xxvii. 50 ff.— Ed.] 

P. 419, col. 2, lines 11, 12, 

To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas. 

[It was believed to have been grown 
from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea. — 
Ed.] 

P. 421, col. 2, line 7. ' The Siege 
perilous.' The perilous seat which stands 
for the spiritual imagination. 

["And anon he brought him unto the 
Siege Perilous, where beside sat Sir 
Launcelot. And the good old man lift 
up the cloth, and found there letters that 
said, ' This is the siege of Sir Galahad, the 
good knight.' 'Sir,' said the old man, 
' wit yee well this place is yours. ' And 



then hee set him down surely in that 
siege" (Malory). — Ed.] 

P. 422, col. I, line 11. shining hair. 
[Cf. TrXoKCLfMOvs (paeivovs (//. xiv. 176). — 
Ed.] 

P. 422, col. 2, line 3. [The four zones 
represent human progress : the savage state 
of society ; the state where man lords it 
over the beast ; the full development of 
man ; the progress toward spiritual ideals. 
—Ed.] 

P. 422, col. 2, line 32. 

/n u?iremorseful folds of rolling fire. 

This line gives onomatopoeically the 
' ' unremorseful flames. " 

P. 423, col. 2, lines 3, 4. 
'Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said the King, 

'for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for these.' 

The king thought that most men ought 
to do the duty that lies closest to them, and 
that to few only is given the spiritual en- 
thusiasm. Those who have it not ought 
not to affect it. 

P. 423, col. 2, line 23. White Horse. 
[See note on p. 368, col. 2, line 30. — Ed.] 

P. 424, col. I, line 29. wyvern, two- 
legged dragon. Old French xoivre, viper. 

P. 425, col. I, lines 7-10. 
But even while I drank the brook, a7id ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at once 
Fell i?ito dust, and I was left alone. 
And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. 

The gratification of sensual appetite brings 
Percivale no content. 

P. 425, col. I, lines 11-20. Nor does 
wifely love and the love of the family. 

P. 425, col. I, lines 21-28. Nor does 
wealth, which is worshipl by labour. 

P. 425, col. I, line 29 to col. 2, line 6. 
Nor does glory. 

P. 425, col. 2, lines 7-25. Nor does 
Fame. 

P. 426, col. I, line 9. 
Led on the gray-hair d wisdom of the east. 
The Magi. 



976 



NOTES 



P. 426, col. I, line 18. sacring, con- 
secration. 

P. 426, col. I, line 22. 

/ saw the fiery face as of a child. 

[See Malory, xvii. 20 : " And then he 
took an ubbly (a cake of the Sacrament), 
which was made in the likenesse of bread ; 
and at the lifting up there came a figure in 
the likenesse of a child, and the visage was 
as bright and red as any fire, and smote 
himself into that bread, so that they all 
saw that the bread was formed of a fleshly 
man." — Ed.] 

P. 426, col. 2, line 14. 
Storm at the top, and when we gain'd it, 

storm. 
It was a time of storm when men could 
imagine miracles, and so storm is em- 
phasized. 

P. 427, col I, hne 34. [My father looked 
on this description of Sir Galahad's quest, 
and on that of Sir Lancelot's, as among the 
best blank verse he had written. He 
pointed out the difference between the five 
visions of the Grail, as seen by the Holy 
Nun, Sir Galahad, Sir Percivale, Sir 
Lancelot, Sir Bors, according to their 
different, their own peculiar natures and 
circumstances, their selflessness, and the 
perfection or imperfection of their Christian- 
ity. He dwelt on the mystical treatment 
of every part of his subject, and said the 
key is to be found in a careful reading of 
Sir Percivale's visions. He would also call 
attention to the babbling homely utterances 
of the village priest Ambrosius as a contrast 
to the sweeping passages of blank verse 
that set forth the visions of spiritual en- 
thusiasm. — Ed.] 

P. 429, col. I, lines 14, 15. 
Paynim amid their circles, and the stojies 
They pitch tip straight to heavefi. 
The temples and upright stones of the 
Druidic religion. 

P. 429, col. I, line 20. A mocking fire. 
The sun-worshippers that were said to dwell 
on Lyonnesse scoffed at Perceval. 

P. 429, col. 2, line 4. 
The seven clear stars of A?-thur's Table 

Round. 
The Great Bear. 



P. 429, col. 2, lines 14, 15, 

the sweet Grail 
Glided and past. 
It might have been a meteor. 

P. 429, col. 2, lines 20, 21. 

Sir Bors it was 
Who spake so low. 
[Cf. p. 419, col. I, Hues 28, 29: 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours, 
Told us of this in our refectory. Ed. ] 

P. 430, col. I, line 8. basilisks, the 
fabulous crown' d serpent whose look killed. 

P. 430, col. I, line 8. cockatrices. In 
heraldry, winged snakes. 

P. 430, col. I, line 9. talbots, heraldic 
dogs. 

Pp. 430, 431. ["And there he said, 
' My sinne and my wretchednesse hath 
brought me unto great dishonour ; for 
when I sought worldly adventures, and 
worldly desires, I ever achieved them, and 
had the better in every place, and never 
was I discomfited in no quarrell, were it 
right or wrong. And now I take upon me 
the adventures of holy things : and now I 
see and understan that mine old sinne 
hindreth mee, and also shameth mee, so 
that I had no power to stire nor to speak 
when the holy blood appeared before mee. ' 
So thus hee sorrowed till it was day, and 
heard the foules of the ayre sing ; then was 
hee somewhat comforted " (Malory). — Ed.] 

P. 431, col. 2, lines 24, 25. 

o?ily the rounded moon 

Thro the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 

[My father was fond of quoting these 
lines for the beauty of the sound. " The 
lark" in the tower toward the rising sun 
symbolizes Hope. — Ed.] 

P. 432, col. I, line 27. deafer than the 
blue-eyed cat. [Cf. Darwin's Origiti of 
Species, ch. i. : " Thus cats which are 
entirely white and have blue eyes are 
generally deaf; but it has lately been 
pointed out by Mr. Tait that this is con- 
fined to the males." — Ed.] 

P. 432, col. 2, line 16. 
{^And spake I not too truly, O my knights, 

etc. 
refers to King Arthur's speech (pp. 291- 



NOTES 



977 



299)1 given in Malory as follows : — 
"'Alas!' said King Arthur unto Sir 
Gawaine, ' yee have nigh slaine me with 
the vowe and promise that yee have 
made ; for through you yee have bereft 
mee of the fairest fellowship and the truest 
of knighthood that ever were seene together 
in any realme of the world. For when 
they shall depart from hence, I am sure 
that all shall never meete more in this 
world, for there shall many die in the 
quest, and so it forethinketh me a little ; 
for I have loved them as well as my life, 
wherefore it shall grieve me right sore the 
separation of this fellowship, for I have 
had an old custome to have them in my 
fellowship. And therewith teares fell into 
his eyes." — Ed.] 

P. 433, col. I, lines 8-17. Arthur 
suggests that all the material universe may 
be but vision. 

[As far back as 1839 my father had 
written to my mother : " Annihilate within 
yourself these two dreams of Space and 
Time." "I think," he said, "matter is 
merely the shadow of something greater 
than itself,- which we poor short-sighted 
creatures cannot see." — Ed.] 

P. 433, col. I, lines 14-16. 
In mo7ne?its xuhen he feels he cannot die. 
Arid knows himself no vision to himself, 
Nor the high God a vision, 
[Cf. The Anciefit Sage : 

for more than once when I 
Sat all alone, revolving in m)^self 
The word that is the symbol of myself. 
The mortal limit of the Self was loosed, 
And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 
Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my limbs, 

the limbs 
Were strange not mine — and yet no shade 

of doubt, 
But utter clearness, and thro' loss of Self 
The gain of such large life as match'd with 

ours 
Were Sun to spark. Ed. ] 

P. 433, col. I, lines 16, 17. 

7ior that One 
Who rose again. 
[My father said (I think) about this 
passage : ' ' There is something miraculous 
in man, and there is more in Christianity 



than some people think. It is enough to 
look on Christ as Divine and Ideal without 
defining more. They will not easily beat 
the character of Christ, that union of man 
and woman, strength and sweetness." — 
Ed.] 

P. 433. Pelleas and Ettarre. 
[First published in 1869. See Malory, 
iv. 20-23. — Ed.] Almost the saddest of 
the Idylls. The breaking of the storm. 

P. 433, col. 2, lines 21, 22. 

It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern without 

Burnt as a living Jit-e of emeralds. 

Seen as I lay in the New Forest. [This 
whole passage is descriptive of the New 
Forest, which he called "the finest bit of 
old England left, the most peculiar." — 
Ed.] 

P. 438, col. 2, line 30. prowest, noblest. 

P. 440, col. I, line 21. lurdane, from 
Old French lourdin, heavy. [Cf. Scott's 
Abbot, iv. : "I found the careless lurdane 
feeding him with unwashed flesh," — Ed.] 

P. 440, col. 2, line 16. 
And the sword of the tourney across her 

throat. 
The line gives the quiver of the sword 
across their throats. 

[ ' ' And when he cam to the pavilions he 
tied his horse to a tree, and pulled out his 
sword naked in his hand, and went straight 
to them where as they lay together, and 
yet he thought that it were great shame for 
him to sley them sleeping, and laid the 
naked sword overthwart both their throates, 
and then he tooke his horse, and rod forth 
his way, making great and wofuU lamenta- 
tion " (Malory). — Ed.] 

P. 442, col. 2, line 25. Yea, between thy 
lips — and sharp. [Cf. Cymbeline, ill. iv, 
35-— Ed.] 

P. 443. The Last Tournament. 
[First published in The Contemporary 
Review, December 1871. The bare out- 
line of the story and of the vengeance of 
Mark is taken from Malory ; my father 
often referred with pleasure to his creation 
of the half-humorous, half-pathetic fool 
Dagonet.— Ed.] 



978 



NOTES 



P, 444, col. 2, line 8. strangers to the 
tongue ^ rough. 

P.' 444, col. 2, line 8. blimt stump, 
where the hand had been cut off and the 
stump had been pitched. 

P. 444, col. 2, line 12. the Red Knight, 
Pelleas. 

P. 445, col. I, line 10. [Cf. Isaiah xiv. 
1 3. -Ed.] 

P. 445, col. 2, lines 14, 15. [See Mer- 
lin's song in The Coming of Arthur, p. 315. 
—Ed.] 

P. 446, col. I, line 3. vaiVd, drooped. 
[Cf. Hamlet, i. ii. 70 : 
" Do not for ever with thy vailed lids 

Seek for thy noble father in the dust. " 

Ed.] 

P. 446, col. I, line 6. Of Autumn 
thunder, the autumn of the Round Table. 

P. 446, col. I, lines 27, 28. 
A spear, a harp, a bugle — Tristram — late 
Frotn overseas in Brittany rettirnd. 
He was a harper and a hunter. 

[ ' ' And so Tristram learned to be an 
harper passing all other, that there was 
none such called in no countrey. And so 
in harping and in instruments of musike 
hee applied himself in his youth for to 
learne, and after as he growed in his might 
and strength, he laboured ever in hunting 
and hawking, so that we never read of no 
gentleman more that so used himself 
therein. . . . 

' ' And every day Sir Tristram would 
ride in hunting ; for Sir Tristram was that 
time called the best chacer of the world, 
and the noblest blower of an home of all 
manner of measures. For as bookes re- 
port, of Sir Tristram came all the good 
termes of venery and of hunting, and the 
sises and measures of blowing of an home. 
And of him we had first all the termes of 
hawking, and which were beasts of chace 
and beasts of venery, and what were 
vermines, and all the blasts that long to all 
manner of games. First to the uncoupeling, 
to the seeking, to the rechace, to the flight, 
to the death, and to strak, and many other 
blasts and termes, that all manner of 
gentlemen have cause to the world's end 



to praise Sir Tristram and to pray for his 
soule" (Malory). — Ed.] 

P. 446, col. 2, line 9. Art thou the 
purest, brother ? Because the Queen had 
said : 

" The purest of thy knights 
May use them for the purest of my maids. " 

P. 446, col. 2, lines 22-29. It was the 
law to give the prize to some lady on the 
field, but the laws are broken, and Tristram 
the courteous has lost his courtesy, for the 
great sin of Lancelot was sapping the 
Round Table. 

P. 447, col. I, line 8. 
The snowdt'op 07ily , floiveri7ig thro' the year. 
Because they were dressed in white. 

P. 447, col. I, lines 15, 16. 
Liken' d them, saying, as when an hour of 

cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer 

snows. 
Seen by me at Murren in Switzerland. 

P. 447, col. 2, line 23, 
Her daintier namesake down in Brittany. 
Isolt of the white hands. 

P. 447, col. 2, line 28. shell, husk. 

P. 448, col. 2, line 21. Paynim bard, 
Orpheus. 

P. 448, col. 2, line 28. harp of Arthur, 
Lyra. 

P. 449, col. I, line 22. burni7zg spurge, 
the juice of the common spurge. I re- 
member two early lines of mine : 

Spurge with fairy crescent set 
Like the flower of Mahomet. 

P. 449, col. 2, line 2. outer eye, the 
hunter's eye. 

P. 449, col. 2, line 7. slot, trail. 

P. 449, col. 2, line 7. fewmets, droppings. 

P. 450, col. 2, line 24. the name, 
Pelleas, 

P. 451, col. I, lines 1-6. 
Fall, as the crest of sorne slow-arching wave. 
Heard in dead 7iight along that table-shore. 
Drops flat, and after the great waters break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin 
the7nselves. 



NOTES 



979 



Far over sands marbled with moon and 

cloud. 
From less and less to nothing. 
As I have heard and seen the sea on the 
shore of Mablethorpe. 

P. 451, col. I, hne 19, Alioth and 
Alcor, two stars in the Great Bear. 

P. 451, col. I, line 21. as the water 
Moab saii). [Cf. 2 Kings iii. 22. — Ed.] 

P. 451, col. 2, line 7. What, if she hate 
vie now f " She " is his wife. 

P. 451, col. 2, line 13. roky [misty. 
Cf. Macbeth, iir. ii. 51. — Ed.] 

P. 451, col. 2, line 21. 
The spiring stone that scaled about her 

tower. 
Winding stone staircase. 

P. 452, col. 2, line 7. Sailing fro7n 
Ireland. Tristram had told his uncle 
Mark of the beauty of Isolt, when he saw 
her in Ireland, so Mark demanded her hand 
in marriage, which he obtained. Then 
Mark sent Tristram to fetch her as in my 
Idylls Arthur sent Lancelot for Guinevere. 

P. 453, col. 2, line 24. malkin in the 
mast, slut among the beech nuts. 

P. 454, col. 2, line 12. 
Believed himself a greater than himself. 
When the man had an ideal before him. 

P. 454, col. 2, line 32. 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour. 
Seen by me in the Museum at Christiania 
in Norway. 

P. 455, col. I, line 3. yaffingale. Old 
word, and still provincial for the green 
wood-pecker (so called from its laughter). 
In Sussex "yaffel. " 

P. 455, col. 2, lines 1-8. Like an old 
Gaelic song — the two stars symbolic of the 
two Isolts. 

P. 455, col. 2, lines 23, 24. ["Also 
that false traitour King Marke slew the 
noVjle knight Sir Tristram as he sat harping 
before his lady La beale Isoud, with a 
trenchant glaive, for whose death was 
much bewailing of every knight that ever 
was in King Arthur's dales. . . . And La 



Beale Isoud died swooning upon the cross 
of Sir Tristram, whereof was great pity " 
(Malory).— Ed.] 

P. 456. Guinevere. [First published 
in 1859. This Idyll is largely original, 
being founded on the following passage 
from Malory : ' ' And so shee went to 
Almesbury, and there shee let make her- 
self a nunne and ware white cloathes and 
blacke. And great pennance shee tooke 
as ever did sinfull lady in this land : and 
never creature could make her merry, 
but lived in fastings, prayers, and almes 
deedes, that all manner of people mervailed 
how vertuously shee was changed. Now 
leave wee Queene Guenever in Almesbury, 
that was a nunne in white cloathes and 
blacke ; and there she was abbesse and 
mler, as reason would." Guinevere was 
called Gwenhwyvar (the white ghost) by 
the bards, and is said by Taliessin to have 
been " of a haughty disposition even in 
her youth." Malory calls her the daughter 
of Leodogran of the land of Camelyard. 

According to Geoffrey of Monmouth, 
' ' Guanhumara ' ' was ' ' descended from a 
noble family of Romans, and educated 
under Duke Cador of Cornwall, and 
surpassed in beauty all the women of the 
island." 

"Some one," writes my father, "asks 
how long it took to write Guinevere f 
About a fortnight." He used to say 
something of this kind: "Perfection in 
art is perhaps more sudden than we think ; 
but then the long preparation for it, that 
unseen germination, that is what we ignore 
and forget." 

My mother notes in her Journal : ' ' July 
c)th, 1857. A. has brought me as a birth- 
day present the first two lines that he has 
made of Guinevere, which might be the 
nucleus of a great poem. Arthur is parting 
from Guinevere, and says : 
But hither shall 1 never come again. 
Never lie by thy side ; see thee no more ; 
Farewell!" Ed.] 

P. 456, line 2. Ahnesbury, near Stone- 
henge, now Amesbury. 

P. 458, col. I, line 26. housel. Anglo- 
Saxon husel, the Eucharist. 

P. 460, col. I, line 24. spigot, the bung. 



980 



NOTES 



P. 460, col. 2, line 16. Biide and Bos. 
North of Tintagil. 

P. 462, col. I, line 18. That seem d the 
kcavcfis. [This simile was made from the 
liyacinths in the Wilderness at Farringford. 
—Ed.] 

P. 465, col. I, line 23. Pendi-agonship. 
The headship of the tribes who had con- 
federated against the Lords of the White 
Horse. "Pendragon" not a dactyl as 
some make it, but Pdn-dragon. Tho' in 
the first edition of the Palace of Art \ 
ended one line with Pendragon, I never in 
reading pronounced it dactylically, but 
Pendrag6n. 

P. 466, col. I, line 23. vail. See p, 
446, col. I, line 3. 

P. 467. The Passing of Arthur. 
["The temporary triumph of evil, the 
confusion of moral order, closing in the 
Great Battle of the West." This complete 
Idyll was published in 1869. 169 Hnes at 
the beginning and 30 lines at the end were 
added to the Morte d' Arthur, originally 
published in 1842. Cf. Notes on the 
" IVIorte d' Arthur," Memoir, vol. i. pp. 
384-390.— Ed.] 

P. 467, line 14. lesser god. Cf. the 
demiurge of Plato, and the gnostic belief 
that lesser Powers created the world. 

P. 467, col. 2, lines i, 2. 

blown 
Along a wandering wind. 

aliae panduntur inanes 
Suspensae ad ventos. 

Virgil, Aen. vi. 740-741. 

P. 467, col. 2, lines 21, 22, 
O me, my King, let pass whatever will. 
Elves, and the harmless glamonr of the 

field. 
The legends which cluster round the King's 
name. 

P. 467, col. 2, line 27. for the ghost is 
as the mail. The spirit. 

P. 468, col. I, line 25. fragments of 
forgotten peoples. Perhaps old Celts. 

P. 468, col. 2, line i. 
Burfid at his lowest in the rolling year. 
The winter solstice. 



P. 468, col. 2, line i. rolling year. 
[Cf. TrepiirXofjievov ivLavrov. — Ed.] 

P. 468, col. 2, lines 3, 4. 
IVor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the 

west. 
A Vision of Death. 

P. 468, col. 2, line 24. mottstrous 
blasphemies. Cf. Rev. xvi. , the battle of 
Armageddon. 

P. 469, col. I, lines 15, 16. 

And rolling far along the gloomy shores 

The voice of days of old a?id days to be. 

This grim battle in the mist contrasts 
with Arthur's glorious battle in the Comi?ig 
of Arthur, fought on a bright day when 
' ' he saw the smallest rock far on the 
faintest hill." 

P. 471, col. 2, line 29. A7id flashing 
. . . iri an arch. The extra syllable gives 
the rush of the sword as it is whirled jn 
parabolic curve. 

P. 471, col. 2, line 30. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
The Aurora Borealis. 

P. 471, col. 2, line 31. the moving 
isles of winter, icebergs. 

P. 472, col. I, line 8. draiving thicker 
breath, breathing more heavily. 

P. 472, col. I, line 30. As in a picture. 
[Cf. cbs ev ypacpals (Aesch. Ag. 241). 
—Ed.] 

P. 473, col. I, line 13. like the tvither d 
moon, when smitten by the rising sun. 
Cf. Fatima, "Like a dazzled morning 
moon." 

P. 474, col. I, line 16. 
From the great deep to the great deep he 

goes. 
See Merlin's song in The Coming of Arthur, 
P- 315- 

P. 474, col. 2, line 10. 
Then from the dawn it seenid there came, 
but faint. 

From (the dawn) the East, whence have 
sprung all the great religions of the world. 
A triumph of welcome is given to him who 
has proved himself ' ' more than conqueror." 



NOTES 



981 



P. 474, col. 2, line 17. an arch of 
hand. [Cf. Soph. Oed. Col. 1650 : 
dvaKTa 8' avTov dfifidruiv irrioKLOv 
Xe?/^' avrexovTa Kparb's. Ed.] 

P. 474, col. 2, line 21. 

From less to less and vanish into light. 

The purpose of the individual man may 
fail for a time, but his work cannot die. 
[To this my father would add : ' ' There 
are two beliefs I have always held — that 
there is Someone Who knows — God watch- 
ing over all, — and that Death is not the 
end-all of Man s existence." — Ed.] 

Cf. Malory : ' ' Yet somme say in many 
partyes of Englond that King Arthur is 
not deed, But had by the wylle of our 
Lord Jhesu in to another place, and men 
say that he shal come ageyn and he shall 
Wynne the holy crosse." 

And cf. what Arthur says in Layamon's 
Brut, 28619, Madden's Edition, vol. iii. 
p. 144: 

• ' And seothe ich cumen wuUe 
to mine kineriche, 
and wunien mid Brutten, 
mid muchelere wunne, " 

(And afterwards I will come (again) to 
my kingdom, and dwell with the Britons 
with much joy.) 

P. 474. To THE Queen. [First printed 
in Strahan's Library Edition, my father's 
favourite edition of his works, in 1872-3. 
—Ed.] 

P. 474, line 3. rememberable day. When 
the Queen and the Prince of Wales went 
to the thanksgiving at St. Paul's (after the 
Prince's dangerous illness) in February 
1872. 

P. 474, col. 2, line 7. true North, 
Canada. A leading London journal had 
written advocating that Canada should 
sever her connection with Great Britain, 
as she was ' ' too costly ' ' : hence these 
lines. 

P. 475, col. I, line 6. Hougoumoni. 
Waterloo. 

P. 475, col. I, line 21. 
For one to %vhom I made it o'er his grave. 
[Referring to the Dedication to the Prince 
Consort. — Ed.] 



P. 475, col, I, line 25. Rather than 
that gray king. [The legendary Arthur 
from whom many mountains, hills, and 
cairns throughout Great Britain are named. 
—Ed.] 

P, 475, col. 2, line i. Geoffreys. 
Geoffrey of Monmouth's. 

P. 475, col. 2, line i. Malleor. Malory's 
name is given as Maleorye, Maleore, and 
Malleor. 

Some passages of the Idylls were first 
written in prose. See "The Dolorous 
Stroke," Memoir, vol. ii. p. 134. 



P. 476. The Lover's Tale. The 
original Preface to The Lover's Tale states 
that it was composed in my nineteenth 
year. Two only of the three parts then 
written were printed, when, feeling the im- 
perfection of the poem, Twithdrew it from 
the press. One of my friends however 
who, boylike, admired the boy's work, 
distributed among our common associates 
of that hour some copies of these two parts, 
without my knowledge, without the omis- 
sions and amendments which I had in 
contemplation, and marred by the many 
misprints of the compositor. Seeing that 
these two parts have been mercilessly 
pirated, and that what I had deemed 
scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, 
may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole 
poem at last to come into the light — accom- 
panied with a reprint of the sequel — a work 
of my mature life — The Golden Supper 1 

[My father said : ' ' The Lover's Tale ' 
was written before I had ever seen Shelley, 
though it is called Shelleyan " — from the 
character of the verse, and the lu.xuriance 
and exuberance of the imagery. ' ' Allowance 
must be made for abundance of youth. It 
is rich and full, but there are mistakes in it. 
The poem is the breath of young Love." 

Andrew Lang says : ' ' Perhaps not even 
Keats in his earliest work displayed more 
of promise, and gave more assurance of 
genius. Here and there come turns and 
phrases, 'all the charm of all the Muses," 
which remind a reader of things later well 
known in poems more mature. Such lines 
are — 

Strange to me and sweet. 
Sweet thro' strange years, — 



NOTES 



and 

Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky — 

Hung round with ragged rims and burning 

folds— 
and 
Like sounds without the twilight realm of 

dreams, 
Which wander round the bases of the hills. " 

Ed.] 

P. 499. The First Quarrel. [First 
published in Ballads and other Poems, 
1880, dedicated to his grandson Alfred 
Browning Stanley Tennyson, born 1878. 
—Ed.] 

Founded on facts told me by Dr. Dabbs, 
who is the doctor. The poor woman 
quarrelled with her husband. He started 
the night of the quarrel for Jersey ; the 
boat, in which he was, struck a reef and 
went down. 

[More than once in his life my father 
lived much among fisher folk botli on the 
east and on the south coast. Carlyle's 
comment on the poem was: "Ah, but 
that's a dreary tragic tale. Poor fellow, 
he was just an honest plain man, and she 
was a curious production of the century, and 
I am sorry for that poor girl too. " — Ed. ] 

P. 501. RiZPAH. [First published in 
1880. For the title see 2 Samuel xxi. — Ed.] 

Founded on a paragraph which I read 
in a penny magazine, Old Brighton (lent 
me by my friend and neighbour Mrs. 
Brotherton), about a poor woman at 
Brighthelmstone groping for the body of 
her son at nights on the Downs. He had 
been hung in chains for highway robbery, 
and his corpse had been left on the gallows, 
as was customary in the eighteenth century. 

["When the elements had caused the 
clothes and flesh to decay, his aged mother, 
night after night, in all weathers, and the 
more tempestuous the weather the more 
frequent the visits, made a sacred pilgrim- 
age to the lonely spot on the Downs, and 
it was noticed that on her return she 
always brought something away with her 
in her apron. Upon being watched it was 
discovered that the bones of the hanging 
man were the objects of her search, and 
as the wind and rain scattered them on 
the ground she conveyed them to her 



home. There she kept them, and, when 
the gibbet was stripped of its horrid 
burden, in the dead silence of the night 
she interred them in the hallowed enclosure 
of Old Shoreham Churchyard. WTiat a 
sad story of a Brighton Rizpah ! " {Old 
Brighton).— Kli.l 

P. 504. The Northern Cobbler. 
[First published in 1880. — Ed.] Founded 
on a fact that I heard in early youth. A 
man set up a bottle of gin in his window 
when he gave up drinking. A village 
drunkard, hearing this poem read at a 
Village Reading, rose from his seat and 
left the room. "Sally," I suppose, got 
on his brain, and he was heard to grumble 
out, ' ' Women knaws too mooch nowa- 
daiiys." 

P. 504, Verse iii. fettle and clump 
[mend and put new soles to. — Ed.] 
P. 504. Verse iv. squad [dirt. — Ed.]. 

P. 504. Verse iv. scrawfttd an scratted 
[clawed and scratched. — Ed.]. 

P. 504. Verse V. wedr'd [spent. — Ed.]. 
P. 505. Verse ix. tew [sicw. — Ed.]. 

P. 505. Verse xi. nnm-cumpus, non- 
compos. 

P. S06. Verse xiv. snaggy [ill-tempered. 
—Ed.']. 

P. 507. The Revenge : A Ballad 
OF the Fleet. [First published in The 
Nineteenth Century, March 1878, under 
the title of ' ' Sir Richard Grenville : a 
Ballad of the Fleet " ; afterwards published 
in Ballads and Poems, 1880. The line 
At Floras in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay 
was on my father's desk for two years, 
but he set to work and finished the ballad 
at last all at once in a day or two. He 
\\rote to my mother : ' ' Sir Richard 
Grenville, in one ship, The Revenge, 
fought fifty-three Spanish ships of the line 
for fifteen hours : a tremendous story, out- 
rivalling Agincourt. " Carlyle's comment 
on the poem was : ' ' Eh ! Alfred, you 
have got the grip of it," — Ed.] 

This tremendous story is told finely by 
Walter Raleigh in his Report of the truth 
of the fight about the Isles of Afores this 
last summer, and by Froude — also by 



NOTES 



983 



Bacon. "The action," says Froude, 
"struck a deeper terror, though it was 
but the action of a single ship, into the 
hearts of the Spanish people ; it dealt a 
more deadly blow upon their fame and 
moral strength than the Armada itself." 
Sir Richard Grenville commanded Sir 
Walter Raleigh's first colony which went 
out to Virginia. He was always re- 
garded with superstitious reverence by the 
Spaniards, who declared for instance that 
he would carouse three or four glasses of 
wine, and take the glasses between his 
teeth and crush them to pieces and swallow 
them down. The Revenge was the same 
ship of 500 tons in which Drake had sailed 
against the Armada three years before this 
sea-fight. ^ 

Florgs is a dissyllable, Az6res a trisyllable. 

P. 508. Verse vii. galleons. Pro- 
nounced like " allion " in "medallion" 
(derived from galea). 

P. 508. Sir Richard ' ' commanded the 
master gunner, whom he knew to be a 
most resolute man, to split and sink the 
ship, that thereby nothing might remain 
of glory or victory to the Spaniards, seeing 
in so many hours they were not able to 
take her, having had about fifteen hours' 
time, fifteen thousand men, and fifty- three 
sail of men of war to perform it withal ' ' 
(Raleigh). 

P. 509. Verse xiii. 
' / have fought for Qjicen and Faith like a 

valiant man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bozind to do : 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard 

Grenville die ! ' 
"His exact words were: 'Here die I, 
Richard Greenfield, with a joyful and 
quiet mind, for that I have ended my life 
as a true soldier ought to do, that hath 
fought for his country, Queen, religion, and 
honour. Whereby my soul most joyfully 
departeth out of this body, and shall 

1 See R. L. Stevenson, "The English Ad- 
mirals," in P'irginibiis Puerisque, p. 205 : " I 
must tell one more story, which has lately been 
made familiar to us all, and that in one of the 
noblest ballads in the English language. 1 had 
written my prose abstract, I shall beg the reader 
to believe, when I had no notion that the sacred 
bard designed an immortality for Grenville." 



always leave behind it an everlasting fame 
of a vaUant and true soldier that hath 
done his duty as he was bound to do.' 
When he had finished these or such other 
like words, he gave up the Ghost with a 
great and stout courage, and no man 
could perceive any true sign of heaviness 
in him." (Jan Huygen van Linschoten, 
translated into English 1598.) 

P. 509. Verse xiv. 
When a wind from the lands they had 
ruin d awoke from sleep. 

West Indies. "A fleet of merchantmen 
joined the Armada immediately after the 
battle, forming in all 140 sail ; and of these 
140 only 32 ever saw Spanish harbour." 

Gervase Markham wrote a poem entitled 
The Most Honorable Tragedie of Sir 
Richard Grefiuile, Knight, in 1595, and 
in his postscript to the poem writes : 
"What became of the Revenge after Sir 
Richard's death, divers report diversly, 
but the most probable and sufficient proofe 
sayeth, that within fewe dayes after the 
knightes death, there arose a great storme 
from the West and North -West, that all 
the Fleet was dispersed, as well the Indian 
Fleet, which were then come unto them, 
as all the rest of the Armada, which 
attended their arivall ; of which fourteen 
sayle, together with the Revenge, and her 
two hundred Span)'ards were cast away 
uponn the He of St. Michaels ; so it 
pleased them to honour the buriall of that 
renowned ship the Revenge, not suffering 
her to perrish alone, for the great honour 
shee atchieved in her life-time." 

P. 509. The Sisters. [First pub- 
lished in 1880. Partly founded on a 
story, known to my father, of a girl who 
consented to be bridesmaid to her sister, 
although she secretly loved the bridegroom. 
The night after the wedding the unhappy 
bridesmaid ran away from home. They 
searched for her high and low, and at last 
she was found, knocking at the church 
door, in the ' ' pitiless rush of autumn 
rain, " her wits gone — 
The great Tragedian, that had quench'd 

herself 
In that assumption of the bridesmaid. 

The scene of the picnic was a personal 



984 



NOTES 



experience in the New Forest. He would 
often quote as his own belief these lines : 

My God, I would not live 
Save that I think this gross hard-seeming 

world 
Is our misshaping vision of the Powers 
Behind the world, that make our griefs 

our gains. Ed. ] 

P. 510, col. 2, line 30 to p. 511, col. i, 
line 4. 
A 7no07iless night with storm — one 

lightnitig-fork 
Flash' d out the lake ; and thd I loitered 

there 
The full day after, yet in retrospect 
That less than momentary thiinder-sketch 
Of lake and mountain conquers all the day. 

What I saw myself at Llanberis, in 
North Wales. 

P. 514. The Village Wife ; or, 
The Entail. [P'irst published in 1880. 
— Ed.] The village wife herself is the 
only portrait in the Lincolnshire poems that 
is drawn from life. 

P. 514. Verse iii. the fault o' that ere 
madle. By default of the heir male. 

P. 515. Verse ix. ' Ouse [Workhouse, — 
Ed.]. 

P. 515. Verse xi. Heaps a7i' heaps d 
boooks. This really happened to some of 
the most valuable books in the great 
library formed by Johnson's friend, Bennet 
Langton. 

P. 516, Verse xv. Siver the moulds. 
[However, the earth rattled down on poor 
old Squire's coffin. — Ed.] 

P. 517. Verse xix. rootnlin' [rumbling. 
—Ed.] 

P. 517. In the Children's Hospital. 
[First published in 1880. — Ed.] A true 
story told me by Mary Gladstone. The 
doctors and hospital are unknown to roe. 
The two children are the only characters 
taken from life in this little dramatic poem, 
in which the hospital nurse and not the 
poet is speaking throughout. 

P. 517. Verse i. oorali or curari (ex- 
tracted from the Strychnos toxifera) , which 
paralyzes the nerves while still the victim 
feels. 



P. 518, Dedicatory Poem to the 
Princess Alice. [First published with 
The Defetice of Lucknow in The Nineteenth 
Century, April 1879, afterwards in Ballads 
and Poems, 1880. — Ed.] 

P. 518, line 2. fatal kiss. Princess 
Alice (Grand Duchess of Hesse- Darmstadt) 
died of kissing her child, who was ill with 
diphtheria (December 14th, 1878). 

P. 518, line II. Thy Soldier-brother' s. 
[The Duke of Connaught, married on 
March 13th, 1879, to Louise Marguerite, 
Princess of Prussia. — Ed.] 

P. 519. The Defence of Lucknow. 

The old flag, used during the defence 
of the Residency, was hoisted on the 
Lucknow flagstaff by General Wilson, and 
the soldiers who still survived from the 
siege were all mustered on parade, in 
honour of this poem, when my son Lionel 
(who died on his journey from India) visited 
Lucknow. A tribute overwhelmingly touch- 
ing. 

P. 519. Verse ii. Lawrence. Sir Henry 
Lawrence died of his wounds on July 4th, 
1857. 

P. 520. Verse vi. 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 
their lying alarms. 

3292 feet of gallery alone was dug out. 
See Outram's account and Colonel Inglis's 
modest manly record. Lucknow was 
relieved on Sept. 25th by Havelock and 
Outram. 

P. 521. Sir John Oldcastle, Lord 
Cobh AM. [First published in 1880. — Ed. ] 
I took as subject of this poem Sir John 
Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, because he is a 
fine historical figure. He was named by 
the people "the good Lord Cobham," 
a friend of Henry V. As a follower of 
Wyclif, he was cited before a great council 
of the Church, which was presided over 
by Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canter- 
bury, and was condemned to be burnt 
alive for heresy. He escaped from the 
Tower to Wales, and four years later was 
captured and burnt in chains. 

P. 521, line 21. 'Dim Saesneg.' Welsh 

for ' No English. ' 



NOTES 



985 



P. 522, col. 2, line 23. John of Beverley 
burnt Jan. 19th, 1414. 

P. 523, col. I, line 4. My boon com- 
panion. This passage has reference to 
the story that Sir John Falstaff was Sir 
John Oldcastle. For Oldcastle, etc., see 
Epilogue to 2 Henry IV. 

P. 523, col. I, hne 10. 

Or Amurath of the East? 
[Cf. 2 Henry IV. v. ii. 48 : 
"This is the English, not the Turkish 

court ; 
Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, 
But Harry Harry. " Ed. ] 

P. 524, col. I, line 18. Sylvester was 
Pope from 314 to 335 and received the 
Donation from Constantine. 

P. 525. Columbus. [First published 
in 1880. — Ed.] 

Columbus on his return into Spain was 
thrown into chains. 

My poem of Columbus was founded on 
the following passage in Washington 
Irving's Life of Columbus : — " The caravels 
set sail early in October, bearing off 
Columbus shackled like the vilest of culprits, 
amid the scoffs and shouts of a miscreant 
rabble, who took a brutal joy in heaping 
insults on his venerable head, and sent 
curses after him from the island he had so 
recently added to the civilized world. The 
worthy Villejo, as well as Andreas Martin, 
the master of the caravel, felt deeply 
grieved at his situation. They would have 
taken off his irons, but to this he would 
not consent. 'No,' said he proudly, 
' their Majesties commanded me by letter 
to submit to whatever Bobadillo should 
order in their name ; by their authority he 
has put upon me these chains ; I will wear 
them until they shall order them to be 
taken off, and I will afterwards preserve 
them as relics and memorials of the reward 
of my services.' ' He did so,' adds his 
son Fernando in his history. ' I saw them 
alwaj'S hanging in his cabinet, and he 
requested that, when he died, they might 
be buried with him.' " 

P. 525, line 25. the Dragons mouth. 
[Bocca del Drago, the channel so named by 
Columbus between the island of Trinidad 
and South America. — Ed.] 



P. 525, line 26. the Mountain of the 
World. [Adam's Peak in Ceylon. — Ed.] 

P. 525, col, 2, line 19. King David, 
etc. [Cf. Psalm civ. 2.— Ed.] 

P. 525, col. 2, line 21. Lactantius. 
[A famous Christian apologist of the fourth 
century, called by some the Christian 
Cicero. — Ed.] 

P. 526, col. I, line 18. Guanahani. 
[Native name of the first island discovered 
by Columbus. — Ed.] 

P. 526, col. 2, line 19. Cambalu. [Cf. 
"Cambalu, seat of Cathayan Can." 
Paradise Lost, xi. 388. 
Ed.] 
P. 526, col. 2, line 21. Prester John. 
[Cf. " I will fetch you a tooth-picker now 
from the furthest inch of Asia, bring you 
the length of Prester John's foot " [Much 
Ado, II. i. 274). Prester John was a 
legendary Christian king. — Ed.] 

P. 526, col. 2, line 29. Hispaniola. 
[The name given to Hayti by Columbus. — 
Ed.] 

P. 527, col. I, line 27. Veragua. [A 
Spanish province of New Grenada in South 
America. — Ed.] 

P. 528, col. I, line 14. Catalonian 
Minorite. [Bernard Buil, a Benedictine 
monk sent by the Pope to the West Indies 
in June 1493 as Apostolic Vicar. He con- 
tinually tried to thwart Columbus. — Ed.] 

P. 529. The Voyage of Maeldune. 
[First published in 1880. By this story 
my father intended to represent, in his own 
original way, the Celtic genius ; and en- 
joyed writing the poem as he had a genuine 
love for the peculiar exuberance of the Irish 
genius. — Ed.] 

The oldest form of Maeldune is in The 
Book of the Dun Coto ( A.D. 1160). I read 
the legend in Joyce's Old Celtic Romances, 
but most of the details are mine. 

[It was in 1878 at Kilkee that Mr. 
Perceval Graves recommended to my father 
this book ; because he said that he desired 
to write an Irish poem. "When telling 
Tennyson of Joyce's book," he writes, " and 
several of the tales which relate to Finn 
and his heroic companions, I had hoped 
he would have treated one of them, by 



986 



NOTES 



choice Oisin (Ossian) in Tirrnanoge (The 
Land of Youth) rather than ' The voyage of 
Maeldune. ' For the mention of Ossian 
had started him off into an expression of 
admiration of some passages in Macpher- 
son's work for which I was not prepared. 
'Listen to this,' he said: 'O thou, that 
rollest above, round as the shield of my 
fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O Sun ? 
thy everlasting light ? Thou comest forth 
in thy awful beauty ; the stars hide them- 
selves in the sky ; the moon, cold and 
pale, sinks on the western wave ; but thou 
thyself movest alone. Who can be a com- 
panion of thy course? The vales of the 
mountain fall ; the mountains themselves 
decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and 
grows again ; the moon herself is lost in 
heaven ; but thou art for ever the same, 
rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. 
When the world is dark with tempest, 
when thunder rolls and lightning flies, 
thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds 
and laughest at the storm." — Ed.] 

P. 529. Verse iii. Jlittermouse. A bat. 

P. 531. Verse viii. Finn was the most 
famous of old Irish leaders. He was com- 
mander of the Feni of Erin and was father 
of the poet Ossian. He was killed, A.D. 
284, at Athbrea on the Boyne, 

P. 531. Verse x. [Symbolical of the 
contest between Roman Catholics and 
Protestants. — Ed. ] 

P. 531. Verse xi. St. Brendan sailed on 
his voyage some time in the sixth century 
from Kerry, and some say he visited 
America. 

P. 532. De Profundis. [Begun at 
the birth of his son Hallam, Aug, iitb, 
1852 ; first published in The Nineteenth 
Cettttiry, May 1880, — Ed.] 

NOTE ON DE PROFUNDIS'^ 

By Mr. Wilfrid Ward 

He (Tennyson) had often said he would 
go through the ' ' De Profundis ' ' with me 
line by line, and he did so late in January or 

^ From Problems and Persons, by Wilfrid 
Ward, published here by his kind permission 
and that of Longmans, Green & Co. 



early in February 1889, when I was staying 
at Farringford. He was still very ill, having 
had rheumatic fever in the previous year ; 
and neither he nor his friends expected 
that he would recover after his many 
relapses. He could scarcely move his 
limbs, and his fingers were tied with 
bandages. We moved him from bed to 
sofa, but he could not sit up. His mind, 
however, was quite clear. He read through 
the " De Profundis," and gave the sub- 
stance of the explanation I have written 
down. He began languidly, but soon got 
deeply interested. When he reached the 
prayer at the end, he said: "A B" 
(naming a well-known Positivist thinker) 
"exclaimed, when I read it to him, 'Do 
leave that prayer out ; I like all the rest 
of it,' " 

I proceed to set down the account of 
the poem written (in substance) im- 
mediately after his explanation of it. 
The myster}^ of life as a whole which so 
constantly exercised him is here most fully 
dealt with. He supposes a child just born, 
and considers the problems of human 
existence as presented by the thought of 
the child's birth, and the child's future life 
with all its possibilities. The poem takes 
the form of two greetings to the new-born 
child. In the first greeting life is viewed 
as we see it in the world, and as we know 
it by physical science as a phenomenon ; 
as the materialist might view it ; not 
indeed coarsely, but as an outcome of all 
the physical forces of the universe, which 
have ever contained in themselves the 
potentiality of all that was to come — "all 
that was to be in all that was." These 
vast and wondrous forces have now issued 
in this newly given hfe — this child born 
into the world. There is the sense of 
mystery in our greeting to it ; but it is of 
the mysteries of the physical Universe and 
nothing beyond ; the sense of awe fitting 
to finite man at the thought of infinite Time, 
of the countless years before human life 
was at all, during which the fixed laws of 
Nature were ruling and framing the earth 
as we know it, of the countless years earlier 
still, during which, on the nebtilar hypo- 
thesis. Nature's laws were working before 
our planet was separated off from the mass 
of the sun's light, and before the similar 



NOTES 



987 



differentiation took place in the rest of the 
' ' vast waste dawn of multitudinous eddying 
Hght." Again, there is awe in con- 
templating the vastness of space ; in the 
thoughts which in ascending scale rise from 
the new-born infant to the great globe of 
which he is so small a part, from that to 
the whole solar system, from that again to 
the myriad similar systems "glimmering 
up the heights beyond " us which we 
partly see in the Milky Way ; from that to 
those others which human sight can never 
descry. Forces in Time and Space as 
nearly infinite as our imagination can con- 
ceive, have been leading up to this one 
birth, with the short life of a single man 
before it. May that life be happy and 
noble ! Viewing it still as the course 
determined by Nature's laws — a course 
unknown to us and yet unalterably fi.\ed — - 
we sigh forth the hope that our child may 
pass unscathed through youth, may have a 
full and prosperous time on earth, blessed 
by man for good done to man, and may 
pass peacefully at last to rest. Such is the 
first greeting — full of the poetry of life, of 
its wondrous causes, of the overwhelming 
greatness of the Universe of which this 
new-given baby is the child, cared for, 
preserved hitherto unscathed amid these 
awful powers, all in all to its parents, in- 
spiring the hope which new - given joy 
makes sanguine, that fortune may be kind 
to it, that happiness may be as great, 
sorrow and pain as liitle, as the chances of 
the world allow. 

After his explanation, he read the first 
greeting to the child. 

And then comes the second greeting. 
A deeper chord is struck. The listener, 
who has, perhaps, felt as if the first greet- 
ing contained all — all the mystery of birth, 
of life, of death— hears a sound unknown, 
unimagined before. A new range of ideas 
is opened to us. The starry firmament 
disappears for the moment. The " deep " 
of infinite time and space is forgotten. A 
fresh sense is awakened, a deeper depth 
disclosed. We leave this wondrous world 
of appearances. We gaze into that other 
deep — the world of spirit, the world of 
realities ; we see the new - born babe 
coming to us from that fnie world, with 
all the "abysmal depths of personality," 



no longer a mere link in the chain of 
causes, with a fated course through the 
events of life, but a moral being, with the 
awful power of making or marring its own 
destiny and that of others. The propor- 
tions are abruptly reversed. The child is 
no longer the minute outcome of natural 
forces so much greater than itself. It is 
the "spirit," the moral being, a reality 
which impinges on the world of appear- 
ances. Never can I forget the change of 
voice, the change of manner, as Lord 
Tennyson passed from the first greeting, 
with its purely human thoughts, to the 
second, so full of awe at the conception of 
the world behind the veil and the moral 
nature of man ; an awe which seemed to 
culminate when he paused before the word 
" Spirit " in the seventh line and then gave 
it in deeper and more piercing tones : 
"Out of the deep — Spirit, — out of the 
deep." This second greeting is in two 
parts. 

Note that the second greeting considers 
the reality of the child's life and its mean- 
ing, the first only its appearance. The 
great deep of the spiritual world is ' ' that 
true world within the world we see, 
Whereof our world is but the bounding 
shore. " And this indication that the 
second greeting gives the deeper and truer 
view, is preserved in some of the side 
touches of description. In the first greet- 
ing, for example, the moon is spoken of as 
" touch'd with earth's light"; in the 
second the truer and less obvious fact is 
suggested. It "sends the hidden sun 
down yon dark sea." The material view 
again looks at bright and hopeful appear- 
ances in life, and it notes the new-born 
babe "breaking with laughter from the 
dark." The spiritual view foresees the 
woes which, if Byron is right in calling 
melancholy the "telescope of truth," are 
truer than the joys. It notes no longer 
the child's laughter, but rather its tears, 
' ' Thou wailest being born and banished 
into mystery." Life, in the spiritual view, 
is in part a veiling and obscuring of the 
true self as it is, in a world of appearances. 
The soul is " half lost" in the body which 
is part of the phenomenal world, " in thine 
own shadow and in this fleshy sign that 
thou art thou." The suns and moons, 



NOTES 



too, are but shadows, as the body of the 
child itself is but a shadow — shadows of 
the spirit- world and of God Himself. The 
physical life is before the child ; but not as 
a fatally determined course. Choice of 
the good is to lead the spirit ever nearer 
God. The wonders of the material Uni- 
verse are still recognized: "Sun, sun, 
and sun, thro' finite-infinite space, in finite- 
infinite Time " ; but they vanish into 
insignificance when compared to the two 
great facts of the spirit-world which con- 
sciousness tells us unmistakably — the facts 
of personality and of a responsible will. 
The great mystery is ' ' Not Matter, nor 
the finite-infinite," but " this main-miracle, 
that tho7i. art thou, with poiver on thine own 
act and 07i the world. 

' ' Out of the deep " — in this conception 
of the true "deep" of the world behind 
the veil we have the thought which recurs 
so often, as in the "Passing of Arthur" 
and in "Crossing the Bar " ^ — of birth 
and death as the coming from and return- 
ing to the spirit-world and God Himself. 
Birth 2 is the coming to land from that 
deep ; "of which our world is but the 
bounding shore" ; death the re-embarking 
on the same infinite sea, for the home of 
truth and light. 

He seemed so much better when he had 
finished his explanation that I asked him 
to read the poem through again. This he 
did, more beautifully than I ever heard 
him read. I felt as though his long illness 
and his expectation of death gave more 
intensity and force to his rendering of this 
wonderful poem on the mystery of life. He 
began quietly, and read the concluding lines 
of the first " greeting," the brief descrip- 
tion of a peaceful old age and death, from 
the human standpoint, with a very tender 
pathos. Then he gathered force, and his voice 
deepened as the greeting to the immortal 
soul of the man was read. He raised his 
eyes from the book at the seventh line and 
looked for a moment at his hearer with an 

1 " From the great deep to the great deep he 
goes"; and "when that which drew from out 
the boundless deep turns again home." 
2 For in the world wliich is not ours, they said, 

" Let us make man," and that which should be 
man, 

From that one light no man can look upon, 

Drew to this shore, lit by the suns and moons 

And all the shadows. 



indescribable expression of awe before he 
uttered the word "spirit"; "Out of the 
deep — Spirit, — out of the deep." » When 
he had finished the second greeting he was 
trembling much. Then he read the prayer 
— a prayer he had told me of self-pros- 
tration before the Infinite. I think he 
intended it as a contrast to the analytical 
and reflective character of the rest. It is 
an outpouring of the simplest and most 
intense self-abandonment to the Creator. 

P. 532. Part II. At times I have 
possessed the power of making my in- 
dividuality as it were dissolve and fade 
away into boundless being, and this not a 
confused state but the clearest of the clear- 
est, the surest of the surest, utterly beyond 
words, where death was an almost laugh- 
able impossibility, and the loss of per- 
sonality, if so it were, seeming no alteration 
but the only true life. (See The Holy 
Grail, adfiji. ) 

P. 533. Prefatory Sonnet to the 
'Nineteenth Century.' [First pub- 
lished in the first number of The Nine- 
teenth Century, March 1877, afterwards in 
Ballads and other Poems, 1880. — Ed.] 

P. 533, hne 3. their old craft. The 
Contemporary Review. 

P. 533, Hne 7. 

Here, in this roaring moofi of daffodil. 
Written in March. 

P. 533. To the Rev. W. H. Brook- 
field, [First published in Lord Lyttelton's 
Preface to Brookjidd' s Ser7no7is, afterwards 
in Ballads and other Poems, 1880. Dr. 
Thompson, the Master of Trinity, wroLe : 
' ' He was far the most amusing man I ever 
met, or shall meet. At my age it is not 
likely that I shall ever again see a whole 
party lying on the floor for purposes 
of unrestrained laughter, while one of 
their number is pouring forth, with a per- 
fectly grave face, a succession of imaginary 
dialogues between characters, real and 
fictitious, one exceeding another in humour 
and drollery." — Ed.] 

P- 533- Montenegro. [Written after 
talking with Gladstone about the bravery 
of the Montenegrins, and first published 
in The Nineteenth Ce7itu/y, March 1877, 



NOTES 



989 



afterwards in Ballads arid other Poems, 
1880.— Ed.] 

P. 534, col. I, line 7. Tsenwgora 
{Black mountain). The Slavonic name 
for Montenegro. 

P. 534. To Victor Hugo. [Published 
in T/ie Nineteenth Century, June 1877, 
afterwards in Ballads and other Poems, 
1880.— Ed.] 

After my son Lionel's visit to him in 
Paris. 

[Victor Hugo thanked my father in the 
following letter : — 

MoN i^:minent et cher Confrere, — 
Je lis avec Amotion vos vers superbes, c'est 
un retlet de gloire que vous m'envoyez. 
Comment n'aimerais-je pas I'Angleterre 
qui produit des hommes tels que vous ! 
I'Angleterre de Wilberforce ! I'Angleterre 
de Milton et de Newton ! I'Angleterre de 
Shakespeare ! France et Angleterre sont 
pour moi un seul peuple com me V^rit^ et 
Libert^ sont une seule lumi^re. Je crois a 
r unite divme. J'aime tous les peuples et 
tous les hommes et j 'admire vos nobles 
vers. Recevez mon cordial serrement de 
main. Victor Hugo. 

J'ai dt(5 heureux de connaitre votre 
charmant fils — il m'a sembl^, que serrer sa 
main, c'^tait presser la votre. 

Ed.] 

P. 534. Battle of Brunanburh. 
[First pubhshed in 1880. — Ed.] I have 
more or less availed myself of my son's 
prose translation of this poem in The 
Contemporary Review, November 1876. 

[" But tell your father that, when I saw 
his version of yonr Battle of Brunanburh, 
I said to myself, and afterwards to others, 
' There's the way to render ^Eschylus' 
Chorus at last ! ' unless indeed it might 
overpower any blank verse dialogue" 
{^Edward FitzGerald to Hallam Tennyson). 
—Ed.] 

P. 536. Achilles over the Trench. 
[First published in The Nineteenth Century, 
August 1877. — Ed.] 

P. 537. To Princess Frederica on 
HER Marriage. [Written on the marriage 
of Princess Frederica, daughter of George 
v., the bhnd King of Hanover, with 



Baron von Pawel-Rammingen at Windsor, 
April 24th, 1880. Published in 1880. — 
Ed.] 

P. 537. Sir John Franklin. [Written 
in 1877 for the cenotaph in Westminster 
Abbey, and published in Ballads and other 
Poems, 1880. — Ed.] 

P- 537- To Dante. [Written for the 
sixth anniversary of Dante's birth at the 
request of the people of Florence, May 14th, 
1865, and published in Ballads and other 
Poems, 1880. The few lines addressed to 
Dante have a curious history. In 1865 
Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton) met 
a brother of my father's friend Canon 
Warburton, and said to him, "Tennyson 
is not going to the Dante Centenary, but 
he has given me some lines which I am 
to recite to the Florentines," and he then 
repeated the lines. The same evening 
Canon Warburton met his brother, who 
observed, "Milnes has just been saying 
to me some lines which Tennyson has 
given him to recite at the Centenary, for 
he is not going himself. " He then repeated 
the lines. Some fifteen years or so later, 
my father was talking to the Canon about 
the probably short-lived duration of all 
modern poetical fame. "Who," said he, 
' ' will read Alfred Tennyson one hundred 
years hence ? And look at Dante after six 
hundred years!" "That," Warburton 
answered, " is a renewal of the garland- 
of-a-day superstition." "What do you 
mean ? " " Your own words ! " " What 
can you mean?" " Don't you remember 
those lines you gave to Milnes to recite for 
you at the Dante Centenary? " My father 
had quite forgotten the lines, whereupon 
Warburton then wrote them out as far as 
he could remember them. Shortly after- 
wards I was able to send the Canon a 
letter, telling him that my father had 
recalled the correct version of the poem. 
My father would say : ' ' One must dis- 
tinguish from among the poets the great 
sage poets of all, who are both great 
thinkers and great artists, like .^Eschylus, 
Shakespeare, Dante, and Goethe." — Ed.] 

P. 537. [TiRESIAS and other POEMS 

was affectionately dedicated ' ' To my good 

friend, Robert Browning, whose genius 

i and geniality will best appreciate what 



990 



NOTES 



may be best, and make most allowance for 
what may be worst." 

Browning had previously dedicated a 
Selection of his own poems to my father : 

To Alfred Tennyson 

In poetry illustrious and consummate, 
In friendship noble and sincere. 

These brother-poets revelled as it were in 
each other's praise, and were always most 
loyal to one another. For example, on 
one occasion Browning was very angry 
because an anonymous critic had accused 
my father of plagiarism ; and, knowing 
the wealth of similes and metaphors in his 
poems and in his ordinary conversation, 
said to Lecky : ' ' Tennyson suspected of 
plagiarism ! why, you might as well suspect 
the Rothschilds of picking pockets. " — Ed.] 

P- 537- To E. Fitzgerald. [First 
published in 1885. Written after our 
visit to Woodbridge, 1876, when we sailed 
down the river Orwell with Edward Fitz- 
Gerald. He died before Tiresias was 
published. 

His vegetarianism had interested my 
father, and he was charmed by the picture 
of the lonely philosopher, a "man of 
liumorous-melancholy mark," with his gray 
floating locks, sitting among his doves, 
which perched about him on head and 
shoulder and knee, and cooed to him as 
he sat in the sunshine beneath his roses. 

FitzGerald wrote to Fanny Kemble of 
our visit, Sept. 21st, 1876 : "Who should 
send in his card to me last week, but the 
old poet himself — he and his elder son 
Hallam passing through Woodbridge from 
a town in Norfolk. ' Dear old Fitz,' ran 
the card in pencil, ' we are passing thro'.' 
I had not seen him for twenty years — he 
looked much the same, except for his 
fallen locks ; and what really surprised me 
was, that we fell at once into the old 
humour, as if we had only been parted 
twenty days instead of so many years. I 
suppose this is a sign of age — not al- 
together desirable. But so it was. He 
stayed two days, and we went over the 
same old grounds of debate, told some 
of the old stories, and all was well. I 
suppose I may never see him again." 

The dream, to which allusion is made 



in the poem, my father related to us in 
these words : 

' ' I never saw any landscape that came 
up to the landscapes I have seen in my 
dreams. The mountains of Switzerland 
seem insignificant compared with the 
mountains I have imagined. One of the 
most wonderful experiences I ever had was 
this, I had gone without meat for six 
weeks, living only on vegetables ; and at 
the end of the time, when I came to eat 
a mutton-chop, I shall never forget the 
sensation. I never felt such joy in my 
blood. When I went to sleep, I dreamt 
that I saw the vines of the South, with 
huge Eshcol branches, trailing over the 
glaciers of the North." — Ed.] 

P. 537, col. 2, line i. 'a thing etiskied/ 
[See Measure for Measure, i. iv. 34. 
—Ed.] 

P. 537, col. 2, line 17. golden. [Fitz- 
Gerald' s translation of the Rubdiydt of 
Omar Khayydm. — Ed.] 

P. 538. Tiresias. [Partly written at 
the same time as Ulysses ; first published 
in 1885.— Ed.] 

Pp. 540-541. For the close of the poem 
cf. Pindar, Frag. X. No. i. of the Qprjvoi : 

Totcrt XdfjLTret fxev fiivos deXlov rav iuddde 

v^KTa Karco 
(poiviKop68oLS T hi Xei/JLuveaaL Trpodariov 

aiirCov 

Kol \LJ3dP(t} (JKLapq. Kol XP^<^^0LS KUpTToh 

pi^pidep. 
/cat Tol /j.ev 'iiTTTOis yvfxvacriois re, toI bk 

ireaaoh, 
Tol de (popfiiyyeaai TepirovraL, irapd d4 

a(f)iatv evavOris aira% reOaXev 6\^os' 
68juA 8' eparbv Kara xcDpoi' Kldvarai 
aiei dx'ia pnyvvvTUiv irvpl rTfK€({>avei iravToia 

deOiv iwl ^iOfMO^s. 

P. 541. The Wreck. [First published 
in 1885, The catastrophe (see viii.) which 
happened to an Italian vessel, named the 
Rosina, bound from Catania for New 
York, was the nucleus of the poem. One 
day, at the end of October, she was nearly 
capsized by a sudden squall in the middle 
of the Atlantic. All hands were summoned 
instantly to take in sail, and all, together 
with the captain, were actively engaged, 



NOTES 



991 



when an enormous wave swept the deck 
of every hving person, leaving only one 
of the crew who happened to be below. 
For eight days he struggled against wind 
and sea, without taking an instant's re- 
pose, when the Marianna, a Portuguese 
brigantine, bore dow^n upon her, as she 
was sinking, and rescued him. — Ed.] 

P. 543. Verse vi. 
Mother, o?te mor?iing a bird with a warble 

plaintively sweet 
Perch' d on the shrouds, and then fell 
fluttering doivn at my feet. 
This happened in the Pemhroke Castle 
on our voyage to Copenhagen in 1883 
with the Gladstones. 
P. 544. Verse xii. 
The broad white brow of the Isle — that bay 

with the colour d satid. 
Alum Bay in the Isle of Wight. 

P. 544. Despair. [First published in 
The Nineteenth Century, November 188 1, 
afterwards in Tiresias, 1885. — Ed.] 

P. 545. Verse iv. 
See, we were nursed in the drear night- 
fold of your fatalist creed. 

In my boyhood I came across this 
Calvinist creed — and assuredly, however 
unfathomable the mystery, if one cannot 
believe in the freedom of the human will 
as of the divine, life is hardly worth the 
living. 

P. 547. The Ancient Sage. [First 
published in 1885. My father considered 
this as one of his best later poems. — Ed.] 

What the Ancient Sage says is not the 
philosophy of the Chinese philosopher 
Laot-ze, but it was written after reading 
his life and maxims. ["What I might 
have believed," my father said, "about 
the deeper problems of life ' A thousand 
summers ere the birth of Christ.' In my 
old age, I think I have a stronger faith in 
God and human good than I had in 
youth." Compare with this poem The 
Mystic, written in his boyhood, which 
records his early intimations, or indistinct 
visions, of the mind's power to pass be- 
yond the shadows of the world — to pierce 
beyond the enveloping clouds of ignorance 
and illusion, and to reach some region of 



pure light and untroubled calm, where 
perfect knowledge shall have extinguished 
doubt. 

THE MYSTIC 

Angels have talked with him, and showed 

him thrones : 
Ye knew him not : he was not one of ye, 
Ye scorned him with an undiscerning 

scorn ; 
Ye could not read the marvel in his eye, 
The still serene abstraction ; he hath felt 
The vanities of after and before ; 
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 
The stern experiences of converse lives. 
The linked woes of many a fiery change 
Had purified, and chastened, and made 

free. 
Always there stood before him, night and 

day. 
Of wayward vary colored circumstance, 
The imperishable presences serene 
Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound, 
Dim shadows but unwaning presences 
Fourfaced to four corners of the sky ; 
And yet again, three shadows, fronting one, 
One forward, one rcspectant, three but 

one ; 
And yet again, again and evermore. 
For the two first were not, but only seemed, 
One shadow in the midst of a great light, 
One reflex from eternity on time. 
One mighty countenance of perfect calm. 
Awful with most invariable eyes. 
For him the silent congregated hours. 
Daughters of time, divinely tall, beneath 
Severe and youthful brows, with shining 

eyes 
Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent light 
Of earliest youth pierced through and 

through with all 
Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) 
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud 
Which droops low hung on either gate of 

Hfe, 
Both birth and death ; he in the centre 

fi.xt, 
Saw far on each side through the grated 

gates 
Most pale and clear and lovely distances. 
He often lying broad awake, and yet 
Remaining from the body, and apart 
In intellect and power and will, hath heard 
Time flowing in the middle of the night. 
And all things creeping to a day of doom. 



992 



NOTES 



How could ye know him ? Ye were yet 

within 
The narrower circle ; he had wellnigh 

reached 
The last, with which a region of white 

flame, 
Pure without heat, into a larger air 
Upburning, and an ether of black blue, 
Investeth and ingirds all other lives. 

Ed.] 
P. 550, col. 2, line 4. 
The phanto7n walls of this illusion fade. 
Or may I make use of a parable? 
Man's Free-will is but a bird in a cage ; 
he can stop at the lower perch, or he can 
mount to a higher. Then that which is 
and knows — for it has always seemed to 
me there must be that which knows — will 
enlarge his cage, give him a higher and a 
higher perch, and at last break off the top 
of his cage, and let him out to be one with 
the only Free-will of the Universe. 

P. 551, col. I, line 10. 'The Passion of 
the Past.' The whole poem is very 
personal. This Passion of the Past I used 
to feel when a boy. [See Far— far — away, 
p. 873.— Ed.] 

P. 551, col. I, line 27. 
But utter clearness, and thro' loss of Self. 

This is also a personal experience which 
I have had more than once. 

[Professor Tyndall wrote : 

In the year 1885 . . . were published Tiresias 
and other Poems, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. 
For a copy of this remarkable volume I am 
indebted to its author. It contains a poem called 
The Ancient Sage. 

My special purpose in introducing this poem, 
however, is to call your attention to a passage 
further on which greatly interested me. The 
poem is, throughout, a discussion between a 
believer in immortality and one who is unable to 
believe. The method pursued is this. The Sage 
reads a portion of the scroll, which he has taken 
from the hands of his follower, and then brings 
his own arguments to bear upon that portion, 
with a view to neutralising the scepticism of the 
younger man. Let me here remark that I read 
the whole series of poems published under the 
title Tiresias, full of admiration for their fresh- 
ness and vigour. Seven years after I had first 
read them your father died, and you, his son, 
asked me to contribute a chapter to the book 
which you contemplate publishing. I knew that 
I had some small store of references to my 
interview with your father carefully written in 
ancient journals. On the receipt of your request, 
I looked up the account of my first visit to 



Farringford, and there, to my profound astonish- 
ment, I found described that experience of your 
father's which, in the mouth of the Ancient Sage, 
was made the ground of an important argument 
against materialism and in favour of personal 
immortality eight-and-twenty years afterwards. 
I had completely forgotten it, but here it was 
recorded in black and white. If you turn to 
your father's account of the wonderful state of 
consciousness superinduced by thinking of his 
own name, and compare it with the argument of 
the Ancient Sage, you will see that they refer to 
one and the same phenomenon. 

A^nd more, my son ! for more than once when I 
Sat all alone, revolving in myself 
The word that is the symbol of myself. 
The mortal limit of the Self was loosed. 
And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 
Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my limbs, the 

limbs 
Were strange not mine — and yet no shade of 

doubt. 
But utter clearness, and thro' loss of Self 
The gain of such large life as match'd with ours 
Were Sun to spark — unshadowable in words. 
Themselves but shadows of a shadow-world. 

Ed.] 

P. 552. The Flight. [First pubhshed 
in 1885. — Ed. ] This is a very early poem, 

P. 555. Tomorrow. [First published 
in 1885. — Ed.] This story was told me 
by Aubrey de Vere. [The body of a 
young man was laid out on the grass by 
the door of a chapel in the West of Ireland, 
and an old woman came, and recognized 
it as that of her young lover, who had 
been lost in a peat-bog many years before : 
the peat having kept him fresh and fair as 
when she last saw him. 

He corrected his Irish from Carleton's 
admirable Truths of the Irish Peasantry. 
"Tennyson," writes Mr. Perceval Graves, 
' ' certainly could not have written that 
intensely dramatic poem, had he not been 
deeply sensible of the tragic side of Irish 
peasant life, as he saw it with his own eyes 
so shortly after the potato famine. How 
gracefully too he presses into his service 
the poetic imagery of the Western Gael. 
It is moreover an interesting assertion of 
his belief in the artistic value of Irish 
dialect in verse — ' Irish Doric,' as he once 
wrote of it to me." — Ed.] 

P. 557. The Spinster's Sweet-Arts. 
[First published in 1885. — Ed.] 

P. 559. Verse xvi. Jackman i' purple a 
rodbin' the 'ouse like a Queed?i. Clematis 
Jackmanni. 



NOTES 



993 



P. 560. LocKSLEY Hall Sixty Years 
After. [First published in 1886, and 
dedicated to my mother, partly because it 
seemed to my father that the two Locksley 
Halls were likely to be in the future two of 
the most historically interesting of his 
poems, as descriptive of the tone of the 
age at two distant periods of his life : 
partly because the following lines were 
written immediately after the death of my 
brother, and described his chief character- 
istics : 

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, 

being true as he was brave ; 
Good, for Good is Good, he foUow'd, yet 

he look'd beyond the grave ! 
Truth for Truth, and Good for Good ! 

The Good, the True, the Pure, the 

Just ! 
Take the charm "For ever" from them 

and they crumble into dust. 

Ed.] 

A dramatic poem, and the Dramatis 
Personce are imaginary. Since it is so 
much the fashion in these days to regard 
each poem and story as a story of the 
poet's life, or part of it, may I not be 
allowed to remind my readers of the 
possibility, that some event which comes 
to the poet's knowledge, some hint flashed 
from another mind, some thought or 
feeling arising in his own, or some mood 
coming — he know-s not whence or how — 
may strike a chord from which a poem 
evolves its life, and that this to other eyes 
may bear small relation to the thought or 
fact or feeling to which the poem owes its 
birth, whether the tenor be dramatic or 
given as a parable ? 

Gladstone says : ' ' The method in the 
old Locksley Hall and the new is the same. 
In each the maker is outside his work, and 
in each we have to deal with it as strictly 
'impersonal'" {Nineteenth Century, Jan. 
1887). 

P. 560, line 13. In the hall there hangs 
a painting. These four lines were the 
nucleus of the poem, and were written 
fifty years ago. 

P. 561, line 22. 
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam 
of dying day. 



[My father always quoted this line as 
the most imaginative in the poem. — Ed.] 

P. 563, line 3. peasants mairn. The 
modern Irish cruelties. 

P. 563, line 29. Plowmen, Shepherds, 
etc. and the three following verses show 
that the hero does not (as has been said) 
by any means disHke the democracy. 

P. 564, line 29. Jacquerie. Originally 
a revolt in 1358 against the Picardy 
nobles ; and afterwards applied to insur- 
rections of the mob. 

This and the eight following verses 
show that he is not a pessimist, I think. 



P. 565, line 21. BHnger hofne. [See 
note on Leonine Elegiacs, p. 896. — Ed.] 

P. 568. Prologue to General 
Hamley. [First published in 1885. — 
Ed.] Written from Aldworth, Black- 
down. 

P. 568, line 28. Tel-el-Kebir. [Where 
Lord Wolseley defeated the Egyptians 
under Arabi Pasha, September 13th, 1882, 
—Ed.] 

P. 568. The Charge of the Heavy 
Brigade at Balaclava. [First published 
in Macmillari s Magazine, March 1882 ; 
afterwards, in 1885, in Tiresias. — Ed.] 
Written at the request of Mr. Kinglake. 
An officer, who was in this charge, said 
that it was " the finest excitement " he had 
ever known, and that "gambling and 
horse-racing were nothing to it." 

[The following is what Kinglake wrote 
for my father at the time : — 

1ST Instant. 

Scarlett seeing the enemy and preparing to 
confront him. 

Scarlett is marching eastward with his 
"300" in marching order, when, casting 
his eyes towards the heights on his left, i.e. 
towards the north, he sees a host of 
Russians breaking over the sky-line and 
presently advancing downhill towards the 
south. Thereupon he instantly gives the 
order, " Left wheel into line ! " The effect 
of this is to make the "300" no longer 

3S 



994 



NOTES 



show their flank to the enemy, but confront 
him. 
Before the o?'der. After the order. 



One peculiarity attending that ist In- 
stant was that apparently the idea of not 
accepting battle on terms of one to ten did 
not occur to anybody ! 

2ND Instant. 
Suspense. 
The acreage of Russian horsemen is de- 
scending the hill-side at a trot, and the 
"300" confronting them are deliberately 
dressing their line, the regimental officers 
directing the process with their faces to 
their men as in a barrack-yard. This in 
the presence of a vast mass of cavalry 
coming down the hill-side to assail them 
was an interesting and, as I imagine, a 
rare phenomenon. 

3RD Instant. 

The Russian halt and Scarlett's de- 
termination. 

The Russians slacken and halt. Scarlett, 
all things considered, determines that he 
will lead the charge, and for that purpose 
takes the usual course, i.e. places himself 
in front of the line with his aide-de-camp, 
followed by his trumpeter and one orderly. 
Orders to charge. His passage over the 
intervening space marked only, so far as 
observers could tell, by one shout of 
' ' Come on ! " and one wave of his sword. 

4TH Instant. 
The combat mai7itained by the four. 
This personal, and like something medi- 
aeval, and 7iot yet involving the tumult of 



!)attle. The four penetrate so deeply into 
the column as to be secure from the ap- 
proaching crash that will follow when their 
own line comes up. 

5TH Instant. 
The crashing charge of the Greys and 
07ie squadron of the Inniskillingers. 

6th Instant. 
The fight within the column. 

The 2nd squadron of the InniskiUings, 
hearing on the outside their comrades of 
the ist squadron, crash in on the right. 

Ed.] 

P. 570. Epilogue. Col. i, lines 45, 46. 
' / will strike,' said he, 
' The stars with head sublime. ' 
See Hor. Od. i. i. 35, 36 : 

Quodsi me lyricis vatibus inseres, 
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice. 

P. 570. To Virgil. [Was written at 
the request of the Mantuans for the nine- 
teenth centenary of Virgil's death, and 
first published in The Nineteenth Ce?ttuiy, 
Sept. 1882, and afterwards in Tiresias, 
1885. There was a curious misprint in 
the first printed copies of the poem : 
' ' Thou that singest . . . tithe and vine- 
yard " instead of " tilth and vineyard." — 
Ed.] 

P. 571. Verse ix. 

sunder' d once fro7n all the hitman race. 
[Cf. 

Et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos. 
Virg. Eel. i. 67.— Ed.] 

P. 571. Verse x. Mantovano, Mantuan. 
[Cf. Dante, Purg. vi. 74.— Ed.] 

P. 571. The Dead Prophet. [First 
published in Tiresias, 1885. — Ed.] About 
no particular prophet. 

[My father said when writing this poem : 
' ' While I live the OWLS ! 
When I die the ghouls ! ! " 

He had a strong conviction that the 
world likes to know about the roughnesses, 
eccentricities, and defects of a man of 
genius, rather than what he really is. At 
this time he said of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle : 
' ' I am sure that Froude is wrong. I saw 
a great deal of them. They were always 



NOTES 



995 



' chaffing ' one another, and they could not 
have done that if they had got on so ' badly 
together' as Froude thinks." — Ed.] 

P. 573. Early Spring. [An early 
poem, slightly altered, first published in 
The Youth's Companion, Boston, U.S.A., 
1884, afterwards in Tiresias, 1885. Mary 
Brotherton, in the following lines on my 
father, written after his death, well ex- 
pressed his attitude toward Nature : — 
' ' He look'd on Nature's lowest thing 
For some sublime God's word ; 
And lived for ever listening 
Lest God should speak unheard." 
Ed.] 

P. 573. Prefatory Poem to my 
Brother's Sonnets. [Published in 1880. 
— Ed.] Addressed to my brother, Charles 
Tennyson Turner, who died at Cheltenham 
on April 25th, 1879, after a life spent with 
his wife among his parishioners in Grasby, 
Lincolnshire. 

[His sonnets, Letty's Globe, Time and 
Twilight, On seeing a child blush on his 
Jirst vieio of a corpse, The Buoy Bell, The 
Schoolboy's Dreaju, On shoot i?ig a swallow 
i?i early youth, had in my father's judgment 
all the tenderness of the Greek epigram, 
and he ranked sonnets such as Time and 
Twilight, and The Holy Emerald, among 
the noblest in the language. 

My uncle with his aquiline nose, dark 
eyes and black hair was very like my 
father, and Thackeray seeing him in 
middle life called him a ' ' Velasquez tout 
crach6." No one who reads his poems 
can fail to see the "alma beata e bella " 
breathing through them. The poem was 
written as a preface to the Collected Sonnets, 
published in 1880. — Ed.] 

P. 574. * FR.A.TER Ave atque Vale.' 
[Written in 1880 when my father and I 
visited Sirmione, the peninsula of Catullus 
on the Lago di Garda. He rejoiced in 
the old olives, the old ruins, and the 
greensward stretching down to the blue 
lake with the mountains beyond. First 
published in The Nineteenth Centjiry, 
March 1883, and afterwards in Tiresias 
and other Poetfis, 1885. — Ed.] 

P. 574, line 4. where the p?itple flowers 
grow. [Refers to a very beautiful Iris 



with deep purple flowers [Iris henacensis) 
which grows beneath the ruins near the 
Lake of Garda.— Ed.] 

P. 574. Helen's Tower. [Written 
in 1 861 for Lord Dufferin in answer to the 
following letter : — 

Clandebov, Belfast, Sept. ■2i,th, i86i. 

My DEAR Mr. Tennyson — I wonder if jou 
will think nie very pieKumptuous for doing what 
at last, after many months' hesitation, 1 have 
determined to do. 

You must know that here in my park in Ireland 
there rises a high hill, from the top of which I 
look down not only on an extensive tract of Irish 
land, but also on St. George's Channel, a long 
blue line of Scotch coast, and the mountains of 
the Isle of Man. 

On the summit of this hill I have built an old- 
world tower which I have called after my mother 
" Helen's Tower." 

In it I have placed on a golden tablet the 
birthday verses which my mother wrote to me 
on the day I came of age, and I have spared no 
pains in beaiitlfying it with all imaginable de- 
vices. In fact my tower is a little "Palace of 
Art." Beneath is a rough outline of its form and 
situation. 

Now there is only one thing wanting to make 
it a perfect little gem of architecture and decora- 
tion and that is "« voice." It is now ten years 
since it was built and all that time it has stood 
silent. Yet if he chose there is one person in the 
world able to endow it with this priceless gift, 
and by sending me some little short distich for it 
to crown it for ever with a glory it cannot other- 
wise obtain, and render it a memorial of the 
personal friendship which its builder felt for the 
great poet of our age. — Yours ever, 

Dufferin. 

Afterwards published in Tiresias and 
other Poems, 1885. — Ed.] 

P. 574, line 12. earth' s recurring Para- 
dise. The fancy of some poets and theo- 
logians that Paradise is to be the renovated 
earth. 

Pp. 574-575. Epitaphs on Lord 
Stratford de "Redcliffe, General 
Gordon, and Caxton. [Published in 
Tiresias afid other Poems, 1885. The 
epitaph on General Gordon (first published 
in the Times, May 7, 1885) was written in 
answer to a request made by the American 
poet Whittier. — Ed.]' 

P- 575- To the Duke of Argyll. 
[Written when the Duke resigned the office 
of Privy Seal (1881) on account of his 
vehement opposition to Gladstone's Irish 
Bill. First published in Tiresias and other 
Poems, 1885. — Ed.] 



996 



NOTES 



P. 575. Hands alt. Round. When 
this poem was recast and published in 1882 
it was sung all over the Empire on the 
Queen's birthday. [Set to music by my 
mother ; arranged by Sir Charles Stanford. 
Edward FitzGerald writes of the first edition 
(Eversley Edition, vol. ii. 322-4) that my 
father said to him : " I know I wrote these 
lines with the Tears running down my 
Cheeks."— Ed.] 

P. 575. Freedom. [First published in 
the New York hidependefit, 1884, and in 
Macmillans Magazine, December 1884, 
afterwards in Tiresias and other Poems, 
1885.— Ed.] 

' ' It were good that men in their innova- 
tions should follow the example of Time 
itself, which indeed innovateth greatly but 
quietly, and by degrees, scarce to be per- 
ceived. ... It is good also not to try ex- 
periments in States except the necessity be 
urgent, or the utility evident : and well to 
beware that it be the reformation that 
draweth on the change, and not the desire 
of change that pretendeth the change" 
(Bacon). 

P- 575- Verse i. pillar' d Parthenon. 
Misprinted " column'd Parthenon," 

P. 576. To H.R.H. Princess Bea- 
trice. On her marriage with Prince Henry 
of Battenberg, July 23rd, 1885 [and first 
published in the Times, July 23rd, 1885, 
and afterwards in Tiresias and other Poems. 
My father sent the poem to Queen Victoria, 
and she wrote to him about the wedding 
as follows : — 

Froin the Qjteen 

Osborne, Aug. -jth, 1885. 

Dear Lord Tennyson—. . . As I gazed on 
the happy young couple, and on my two sons 
Alfred and Arthur and their bonnie bairns, I 
could not but feel sad in thinking that their hour 
of trial might come, and earnestly prayed God 
would spare my sweet Beatrice and the husband 
she so truly loves and confides in, for long, long 
to each other. 

Till sixty-one no real inroad of any kind had 
been made in our circle, and how heavy has 
God's hand been since then on me ! 

Mother, husband, children, truest friends, all 
have been taken from me, and yet I must "still 
endure," and I shall try to do so. Your beautiful 
lines have been greatly admired. 

I wish you could have seen the wedding, for 
every one says it was the prettiest they ever saw. 
The simple, pretty, little village church, all 
decorated with flowers, the sweet young bride, 



the handsome young husband, the ten brides- 
maids, six of them quite children with flowing 
fair hair, the brilliant sunshine and the blue sea, 
all made up pictures not to be forgotten. — 
Believe me always yours affectionately, 

V. R. I. 
And he answered thus : 

Aldworth, Aug. gtk, 1885. 

As to the sufferings of this momentary- life, we 
can but trust that in some after-state, when we 
see clearer, we shall thank the Supreme Power 
for having made us, thro' these, higher and 
greater beings. 

Still it surely cannot be unlawful to pray that 
our children, and our children's children, may 
pass thro' smoother waters to the other shore. 

The wedding must have been beautiful, the 
Peace of Heaven seemed on the day. 

Your Majesty's affectionate subject, 

Tennyson. 
Ed.] 

P. 576. line I. Two Sujis. [Sir George 
Darwin writes : " There are in the heavens 
many double Suns — twin Suns revolving 
about one another. We may well im- 
agine that such systems may have planets 
attached to them, of course invisible to 
us. Each of such planets would have a 
double day, one arising from the illumin- 
ation of one Sun, and the other from 
the other Sun. Your father was not con- 
cerned with computing the orbit of such a 
planet, moving under the attraction of two 
centres instead of one as in our case. The 
conception seems to me very fine, and fits 
in admirably with the rest of the poem." 
—Ed.] 

P. 577. The Fleet. [First published 
in the Times, April 23rd, 1885, afterwards 
in Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, 1886, 
—Ed.] 

P, 577. Opening of the Indian and 
Colonial Exhibition by the Queen, 
May 4th, 1886. [First published in 
Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, 1886. 
This ode was written under the shadow of 
a great grief, as his son Lionel was very ill 
in India, and died on April 20th, — Ed.] 

P. 578. Poets and their Biblio- 
graphies. [First published in Tiresias 
and other Poems, 1885. — Ed.] 

P. 578, line 2. Virgil. [Cf. Prof. H. 
Nettleship's Vergil, pp. 71 and 76 : "Vergil 
was engaged upon the Aeneid from 29 to 
19 B.C. We have the testimony of Sue- 



NOTES 



997 



tonius that he first drafted it in prose, and 
then wrote different parts in no certain 
order, but just as the fancy took him. The 
division into twelve books was part of his 
original plan. . . . When writing the 
Georgics we are told that he would dictate 
a great number of verses in the morning, 
and spend the rest of the day in reducing 
them to the smallest possible quantity, 
licking them, as he himself said, into shape, 
as a bear does its cub," Cf. also Tiberii 
Claudii Donati Vita P. Vergilii Maronis, 
ix. , and Quintilian, Inst. Orat. x. 3. 8 : 
' ' Vergilium quoque paucissimos die com- 
posuisse versus, auctor est Varus." — Ed.] 

P. 578, col. 2, Hne i. Horace. [See De 
A?-te Poetica, line 386 ei seq. : 

si quid tamen olim 
Scripseris, in Metii descendat iudicis aures 
Et patris et nostras, nonumque prematur 

in annum, 
Membranis intus positis. Ed.] 

P. 578, col. 2, line 4. Catullus. [See "De 
Smyrna Cinnae poetae," xcv. lines i, 2 : 

Smyrna mei Cinnae nonam post denique 
messem 
Quam coepta est nonamque edita post 
hiemem, etc. Ed.] 



NOTES ON QUEEN MARY 

P- 579- Queen Mary. [First pub- 
lished in 1875. Played at the Lyceum in 
1876, April 18th to May 13th, Henry Irving 
as Philip and Mrs. Crowe as Mary, with 
incidental music by Sir Charles Stanford. 

"Philip" was one of Irving's best 
characters. 

During 1874 and 1875 '^Y father 
worked hard and unceasingly at his Queen 
Mary, "more of a chronicle-play" he 
called it. The first list of books which he 
read on the subject is written down in 
his note-book: "Collier's Ecclesiastical 
History, Fuller's Church History, Burnet's 
Reformation, Foxe's Book of Martyrs, 
Hayward's Edward, Cave's P. X. Y., 
Hooker, Neale's History of the Puri- 
tans, Strype's Ecclesiastical Memorials, 
Strype's Cranmer, Strype's Parker, 
Phillips' Pole, Prijuitive Fathers No 



Papists, Lingard's History of England, 
Church Historians of England, Zurich 
Letters, and Original Letters and Corre- 
spondence of Archbishop Parker (published 
by the Parker Society)," in addition to 
Froude, Hohnshed, and Camden. 

The well-known critic Mons. Augustin 
Filon writes in Le Thddtre co?itemporain 
(1895): " Vienne une main pieuse qui 
d^gage ces deux drames {Quccfi Mary and 
Harold), fasse circuler I'air et la lumi^re 
autour de leurs lignes essentielles : vienne 
un grand acteur qui compresse et incarne 
Harold, unegrande actricequi se passionne 
pour le caract^re de Marie, et, sans effort, 
Tennyson prendra sa place parmi les 
dramaturges." 

The plays also seem to have appealed 
to no less an authority than Mons. Jules 
Claretie, who has described them as 
' ' beaux drames, et nobles inventions 
thdatrales. ' ' 

See Sir Richard Jebb's essays on Queen 
Mary, Harold, and Becket in the Eversley 
Edition. — Ed.] 

P. 585, col. I, line 17. (Act I. Sc. iv. ) 
Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay then f 
Co UR TEN A V. Velvet and gold. 

[The Queen treated Courtenay as a 
child, and forbad him to dine abroad with- 
out permission, or to wear his velvet and 
gold dress which he had had made to take 
his seat in. Renard feared him as a rival 
to Philip. (Renard to Charles V., Sept. 
19- 1553- Rolls House MSS. , and Fronde's 
History of England, vol. vi. p. 97.) — Ed.] 

P. 587, col. 2, line 6. (Act I. Sc. iv. ) 
To the Pleiads, uncle ; they have lost a sister. 

[The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, 
and were placed among the stars by Zeus. 
One of them, Electra, left her place in the 
heavens that she might not witness the fall 
of Troy, which her son Dardanus had 
founded. — Ed. ] 

P. 592, col. 2, line 18. (Act I. Sc. v.) 
/ am English Quee7i, not Roman Emperor 
was always much cheered in the theatre, for 
the play came out when Queen Victoria had 
been lately proclaimed Empress of India. 

P. 596, col. 2, line 29, (Act ii. Sc. i. ) 
[Alington Castle, on the Medway. My 



NOTES 



father often visited this castle (built b}' the 
father of the poet Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir 
Henry Wyatt) when he was staying with 
his brother-in-law, Edmund Lushington, 
at Park House. Thomas Wyatt, the poet, 
was born here in 1503, and died in 1542, 
and left it to his son, who is the Wyatt of 
the play. — Ed.] 

P. 598, col. 2, line 4. (Act il. So. ii. ) 
For Queen Mary's speech. In mtjie own 
person, see Holinshed. [She spoke in a 
deep voice like a man. 

La voce grossa et quasi de huomo. 
Giovanni Michele, Ellis, vol. ii. series 2. 

Ed.] 

P. 604 (x\ct III. Sc. i. ) [Nine Worthies, 
Joshua, David, Judas Maccabaeus, Hector, 
Alexander, Julius Csesar, King Arthur, 
Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Bouillon.— 
Ed.] 

P. 604, col. 2, line 8. (Act in. Sc, i.) 
the tree in Virgil. See Aeneid, vi. 206. 

P. 609, col. 2, line 17. (Act ill. Sc. ii. ) 
the heathen giant [Antaeus. — Ed. ] 

P. 614, col. I, line i. (Act ill. Sc. iii.) 
For ourselves we do protest. [For Pole's 
speech see Fronde's History of England, 
vol. vi. pp. 276-281 : 

' ' I confess to you that I have the keys 
— not as mine own keys, but as the keys 
of him that sent me : and yet I cannot 
open, not for want of power in me to give, 
but for certain impediments in you to 
receive, which must be taken away before 
my commission can take effect. This I 
protest before you, my commission is not 
of prejudice to any person. I am come 
not to destroy but to build ; 1 come to re- 
concile, not to condemn ; I am not come 
to compel but to call again ; I am not 
come to call anything in question already 
done ; but my commission is of grace and 
clemency to such as will receive it — for, 
touching all matters that be past, they 
shall be as things cast into the sea of for- 
getfulness. But the mean whereby you 
shall receive this benefit is to revoke 
and repeal those laws and statutes which 
be impediments, blocks, and bars to the 
execution of my commission. For, like as 
I myself had neither place nor voice to 



speak here amongst you, but 'was in all 
respects a banished man, till such time as 
ye had repealed those laws that lay in my 
way, even so cannot you receive the benefit 
and grace offered from the Apostolic 
See until the abrogation of such laws 
whereby you had disjoined and dissevered 
yourselves from the unity of Christ's 
Church." — Ed.] 

P. 615, col. 2, line 5. (Act ill. Sc. iv. ) 
an amphisbcena. 
Each end a stitig. 
[Cf. 

' ' Scorpion and asp and amphisbasna dire. " 
Par. Lost, x. 524. — ^^Ed.] 

P. 622, col. 2, lines 8, 9. (Act ill. Sc. 
vi.) 

like the wild hedge-rose 

Of a soft winter, possible, not probable. 

[My father made this simile from a wild- 
rose bush at Freshwater which was in full 
blossom in January. — Ed.] 

P, 623, col. 2, line 25. (Act ill. Sc. 
vi. ) what Virgil sings. Cf. Virgil's 
Aeneid, iv. 569. 

P. 624. (Act III. Sc. vi. ) [Phihp was 
weary of England and of his childless 
queen. " He told her that his father 
wanted to see him, but that his absence 
would not be extended beyond a fortnight 
or three weeks ; she should go with him to 
Dover ; and if she desired she could wait 
there for his return" (Noailles, vol. v. pp. 
77-82 ; Froude's History of England, vol. 
vi. p. 362). — Ed.] 

P. 631, col. 2, line 19. (Act iv. Sc, iii.) 
What saith St. John f i John ii. 15. 

P. 632, col. I, line 14. (Act iv. Sc. iii.) 
A?id?iow, and forasmuch as I have come. 
["And now, forasmuch as I am come to 
the last end of my life, whereupon hangeth 
all my life past and all my life to come, 
either to live with my Saviour Christ in joy, 
or else to be ever in pain with wicked devils 
in hell ; and I see before mine eyes 
presently either heaven " [pointijig up- 
tvards) "or hell" [pointing downwards) 
' ' ready to swallow me. I shall therefore 
declare unto you my very faith, without 
colour or dissimulation ; for now it is no 



NOTES 



999 



time to dissemble. I believe in God the 
Father almighty, Maker of heaven and 
earth ; in every article of the Catholic 
faith ; every word and sentence taught by 
our Saviour Christ, his apostles and pro- 
phets, in the Old and New Testament. 
And now I come to the great thing that 
troubleth my conscience more than any 
other thing that ever I said or did in my 
life, and that is the setting abroad of 
writings contrary to the truth, which here 
I now renounce and refuse, as things written 
with my hand contrary to the truth which 
I thought in my heart, and written for fear 
of death to save my life, if it might be ; 
and that is, all such bills and papers as I 
have written and signed wqth my hand 
since my degradation, wherein I have 
written many things untrue ; and foras- 
much as my hand offended in writing 
contrary to my heart, my hand therefore 
shall first be punished ; for if I may come 
to the fire, it shall be the first burnt." (See 
liarleian MSS. 417 and 422, and Froude's 
History of England, vol. vi. pp. 426-428.) 
—Ed.] 

P, 633, col. 2, lines 22, 23. (Act iv. 
Sc. iii. ) 
And Ignorance crymg in the streets, a7id 

all men 
Regarding her. 
[Cf. Proverbs i. 20. — Ed.] 

Pp. 634-635. (Act IV. Sc. iii.) [The 
Berkshire dialect of Joan and Tib was 
corrected for my father by Tom Hughes, 
author of Tom Browji's Schooldays. — Ed.] 

P. 637, col. I, line 19. (Act v. Sc. i. ) 
lower our kingly /lag. See Prescott's 
History of Philip the Second, vol. i. p. 
113 : " Lord Howard is said to have fired 
a gun, as he approached Philip's squadron, 
in order to compel it to lower its topsails 
in acknowledgment of the supremacy of 
the English on the narrow seas." 

P. 649, col. 2, line 16, 
Thou light a torch that never will go out ! 
[She refers to Latimer's words to Ridley 
when they were burnt at the stake : ' ' We 
shall this day light such a candle, by God's 
grace, as I trust shall never be put out." — 
Ed.] 



P. 650, col. 2, line 2. (Act v. Sc. v. ) 
After Mary's speech, ending "Help me 
hence," the end of the last Act of the Act- 
ing Edition ' ran thus : 

\^Falls into the arms of I.,ADY 
Clarence. 
Alice. The hand of God hath help'd 

her hence. 
Lady Clarence. Not yet. 

{To Elizabeth as she entei-s. 
Speak, speak, a word of yours may wake 
her. 
Elizabeth [k?ieeling at her sister's 

knee). Mary ! 

Mary. Mary ! who calls? 'tis long since 
any one 
Has called me Mary — she — 
There in the dark she sits and calls for 

me — 
She that should wear her state before the 

world. 
My Father's own true wife. Ay, madam. 

Hark ! 
For she will call again. 

Elizabeth. Mary, my sister ! 

Mary. That's not the voice ! 

Who is it steps between me and the light ? 

[Puts her arm round Elizabeth's 7ieck. 

I held her in my arms a guileless babe. 

And mourn'd her orphan doom along with 

mine. 
The crown ! she comes for that ! take it 

and feel it ! 
It stings the touch ! It is not gold but 
thorns ! [Mary starts up. 

The crown of crowns ! Play not with holy 
things ! 

\Clasps Jier ha?ids a fid kneels. 

Keep you the faith ! , . . yea, mother, yea 

I come ! {Dies. 

Lady Clarence. She is dead. 

Elizabeth {kneeling by the Iwdy). Poor 

sister ! Peace be with the dead. 

[Curtain. 

1 As produced at the Lyceum Theatre with 
Irving as Philip, and Miss Kate Bateman as 
Queen Mary. 

On the Australian stage Miss Dargon won a 
triumph in Queen Mary. It was very popular 
when produced at the Melbourne Theatre-Royal, 
and had a long run ; and when reproduced at 
the Bijou Theatre in the same city had a second 
long run. 



NOTES 



APPENDIX TO NOTES ON 

QUEEN MARY 

Letters from Robert Browning 

19 Wakwick Crescent, W., 
June 3o^/z, 1875. 

My dear Tennyson— Thank you very much 
for Queen Mary, the gift, and even more for 
Queen Mary, the poem : it is astonishingly fine. 
Conception, execution, the v/hole and the parts, 
I see nowhere the shade of a fault, thank you 
once again 1 I am going to begin it afresh now. 
What a joy it is that such a poem should be, and 
be yours ! 

All affectionate regards to Mrs. Tennyson from 
yours ever, Robert Browning. 

19 Warwick Crescent, W., 
A^ril igtk, 1876. 

My dear Tennyson — I want to be among the 
earliest who assure you of the complete success of 
your Queen Mary last night. I have more than 
once seen a more satisfactory performance of it, 
to be sure, in what Carlyle calls "the Private 
Theatre under my own hat," because there and 
then not a line nor a word was left out ; nay, 
there were abundant "encores" of half the 
speeches ; still whatever was left by the stage 
scissors suggested what a quantity of " cuttings " 
would furnish one with an after-feast. 

Irving was very good indeed, and the others 
did their best, nor so badly. 

The love as well as admiration for the author 
was conspicuous, indeed, I don't know whether 
you ought to have been present to enjoy it, or 
were not safer in absence from a smothering of 
flowers and deafening "tumult of acclaim," but 
Hallam was there to report, and Mrs. Tennyson 
is with 3'ou to believe. AH congratulations to you 
both from yours affectionately- ever, 

Robert Browning. 



NOTES ON HAROLD 

By the Author 

P. 652. Harold. [First published in 
1876, dated 1877. " A tragedy of Doom " 
my father called it.— Ed. ] 

P. 653, col. I, lines 3, 4. (Act I. Sc. i. ) 
Look you, there's a star 
That dayices in it as mad zvith agony ! 

[My mother writes, October 4th, 1858, 
of my father : ' ' He went to meet Mr. and 
Mrs. Roebuck at dinner at Swainston ; 
and the comet was grand, with Arcturus 
shining brightly over the nucleus. At 
dinner he said he must leave the table to 
look at it, and they all followed. They 
saw Arcturus seemingly dance as if mad 
when it passed out of the comet's tail. 



H[e said of the comet's tail, ' It is like a 
besom of destruction sweeping the sky.'" 
—Ed.] 

P. 653, col. 2, line 9. (Act r. Sc, i. ) 
Did ye not outla'w your archbishop Robert ? 

Robert, a monk of Jumi^ges in Nor- 
mandy, was appointed Archbishop of 
Canterbury by Edward the Confessor. He 
was the head of the Norman, as Earl 
Godwin was of the national party in Eng- 
land ; and he so far wrought upon the 
Norman predilections of the king that in 
the end he procured the banishment of 
Godwin and all his sons. After a while, 
however, these returned with a formidable 
force, but the English would not fight for 
King Edward against them. It was then 
settled that the matters of quarrel between 
Edward and Godwin should be referred 
to a Gem6t or Great National Council. 
The Normans throughout the kingdom 
knew well what would be the vote of this 
Council, and, not daring to abide by the 
result, fled, and among the rest Robert of 
Jumidges. He, it is said, escaped by the 
east gate of London, and killing or wound- 
ing all tliat stayed him, reached Walton- 
on-the-Naze, whence he took ship, and 
past overseas never to come back. 

Of all the Norman bishops, Wilham, 
the Bishop of London, alone retained his 
bishopric. 

P. 653, col. 2, line 24. (Act i. Sc. i. ) 
Who had my pallium from an Antipope ! 

On the death of Stephen IX. in 1058, 
the Imperial party at Rome sent a humble 
message to the Empress Agnes, asking her 
to nominate a new Pope. Meanwhile the 
old Roman feudatory barons elected an 
anti - Pope of their own, the Cardinal 
Bishop of Velletri (Benedict X.), whom 
they hastily inaugurated, and enthroned by 
night. This was resented by the Empress 
as an act of usurpation, whereupon she 
empowered Hildebrand to take measures 
for a fresh election. Accordingly Gerard, 
Archbishop of Florence, was chosen, who 
is known by the name of Nicholas II. I 
quote from Milman's Latin Christianity 
the pathetic history of Benedict's subse- 
quent degradation : 

" Hildebrand the archdeacon seized him 
(Benedict) by force, and placed him before 



NOTES 



lOOI 



Nicholas and a council in the Lateran 
Church. They stripped him before the 
altar of his pontifical robes (in which he 
had been again invested), set him thus de- 
spoiled before the synod, put a writing in 
his hand, containing a long confession of 
every kind of wickedness. He resisted a 
long time, knowing himself perfectly inno- 
cent of such crimes : he was compelled to 
read it with very many tears and groans. 
His mother stood by, her hair dishevelled, 
and her bosom bare, with many sobs and 
lamentations. His kindred stood weeping 
around. Hildebrand then cried aloud to 
the people : ' These are the deeds of the 
Pope whom ye have chosen ! ' They re- 
arrayed him in the pontifical robes, and 
formally deposed him. He was allowed to 
retire to the monastery of St. Agnes, where 
he lived in the utmost wretchedness. They 
prohibited him from all holy functions, 
would not allow him to enter the choir. 
By the intercession of the Archpresbyter of 
St. Anastasia he was permitted at length to 
read the Epistle ; a short time after, the 
Gospel ; but never suffered to read mass. 
He lived to the Pontificate of Hildebrand, 
who, when informed of his death, said, ' In 
an evil hour did I behold him ; I have 
committed great sin.' Hildebrand com- 
manded that he should be buried with 
Pontifical honours" (Milman, viii. p. 48). 

It was from this Benedict that Stigand 
received the pallium, or sacred badge of the 
archiepiscopate. 

P. 655, col. 2, line 5. (Act I. Sc. i. ) 
Is not my brother Wulfjioth hostage there ? 

One version of the story relates that 
Godwin, after his reconciliation with 
Edward, gave hostages for his good con- 
duct, and among them his son Wulfnoth, 
and that these were handed over by the 
king to Count William for their better 
custody. 

P. 662, col. I, line 6. (Act li. Sc. ii. ) 
He was thine host in England when I 

zvent. 
Alalet was half-Norman, half-English. 

P. 662, col. 2, line 11. (Act ll. Sc. ii.) 
Haled thy shore - swallow' d, armour' d 
Norrnans up. 
In that section of the Bayeux tapestry 



which depicts "William's war against Conan 
of Brittany, Harold is seen plucking the 
Norman soldiers two at a time from the 
quicksands below Mont St. Michel where 
the river Coesnon flows into the sea. 

P. 663, col. I, lines 23, 24. (Act II. 
Sc. i.) 

The voice of any people is the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that beats 

them down. 
[Two favourite lines of Mr. Gladstone's. 
—Ed.] 

P. 667, col. I, line 23. (Act ll. Sc. ii. ) 
Some said it was thy father s deed. 

Alfred, the son of Emma (who was also 
mother of Edward the Confessor, and great- 
aunt of William the Conqueror), coming 
into England during the reign of Harold 
the Dane, the son of Cnut, was seized and 
blinded. This crime was imputed to 
Godwin ; but the Witan acquitted him of • 
the charge. 

P. 668, col I, line i. (Act 11. Sc. ii.) 
The Atheling is 7iearest to the throne. 

Edgar the Atheling was grandson of 
Edmund Ironside, and the last male repre- 
sentative of the House of Cerdic. 

P. 669, col. I, line 19. (Act 11. Sc. ii.) 
Behold the Jewel of St. Pancratius. 

Concerning this jewel of Saint Pancratius, 
"gemma tam speciosa quam spatiosa," 
see Freeman's Norman Conquest, vol. iii. 
p. 686. 

P. 676, col. 2, line 5. (Act iii. Sc. ii. ) 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hildebrand. 
[Alexander II. , and Hildebrand, afterwards 
Gregory VII. (1073). — Ed.] 

P. 682, col. I, line 15. (Act iv. Sc. iii.) 
Let him come ! Let him come ! 
Bublie crient e weissel 
E laticome e drincheheil, 
Drinc Hindrewart e Drintome 
Drinc Helf e drinc tome. 

Roman de Rou, 12473. 

P. 684, col. I, lines 25, 26. (Act v. Sc. i. ) 
Waltha?}i, my fo7indation 
For meti who serve the neighbour, not them- 
selves. 
' ' Of his liberality his great foundation at 



NOTES 



Waltham is an everlasting monument, and 
it is a monument not more of his liberality 
than of his wisdom. To the monastic orders 
Harold seems not to have been specially 
liberal ; his bounty took another and a better 
chosen direction. The foundation of a great 
secular college, in days when all the world 
seemed mad after monks, when King 
Eadward and Earl Leofric vied with each 
other in lavish gifts to religious houses at 
home and abroad, was in itself an act dis- 
playing no small vigour and independence 
of mind. The details, too, of the founda- 
tion were such as showed that the creation 
of Waltham was not the act of a moment of 
superstitious dread or of reckless bounty, 
but the deliberate deed of a man who felt 
the responsibilities of lofty rank and bound- 
less wealth, and who earnestly sought the 
welfare of his Church and nation in all 
things " (Freeman's Norman Conquest, 
vol. ii. p. 41). 

P. 685, col 2, hnes 8, 9. (Act v. Sc. i. ) 

that old song of Drunatiburg 
Where England co?iquer'd. 

Constantinus, King of the Scots, after 
having sworn allegiance to Athelstan, allied 
himself with the Danes of Ireland under 
Anlaf, and invading England, was defeated 
by Athelstan and his brother Edmund with 
great slaughter at Brunanburh in the year 

937- 

See my translation of the Song of 
Brunanburh (entitled Battle of Brunan- 
hvrh, p. 534). In rendering this Old 
English war-song into modern language 
and alliterative rhythm I have made free 
use of the dactylic beat. I suppose that 
the original was chanted to a slow, swing- 
ing recitative. 

P. 688, col. 2, line 12. (Act v. Sc. i. ) 
Come as Goliath came of yore. Taillefer 
the minstrel, a man of gigantic stature, 
whe rode out alone in front of the Norman 
army chanting : 

Taillefer, ki mult ben cantout, 
Sor un cheval ki tost alout, 
Devant li Dus alout cantant 
De Karlemaine e de Rollant 
E d' Oliver h des vassals 
Ki morurent en Renchevals. 

Roiuan de Roti, 13 149. 



P. 691, col. I, Hne 9. (Act v. Sc. ii. ) 
Thc7i all the dead fell on him. 
Alluding to her dream in Act I. Sc. ii. : 

and all 
The dead men made at thee to murder thee. 

APPENDIX TO NOTES ON HAROLD 

Letter frofn Robert Browning 

19 Warwick Crescent, 
Dec. 21st, 1876. 
_ Mv DEAR Tennyson— True thanks again, this 
time for the best of Christmas presents, another 
great work,, wise, good and beautiful. The scene 
where Harold is overborne to take the oath is 
perfect, for one instance. What a fine new ray of 
light you are entwining with your many coloured 
wreath ! 

I know the Conqueror's country prettj' well : 
stood last year in his Castle of Bonneville, on the 
spot where tradition is that Harold took the oath : 
and I have passed through Dives, the place of 
William's embarcation, perhaps twenty times : 
and more than once visited the church there, 
built by him, where still are inscribed the names 
of the Norman knights who accompanied him in 
his expedition. You light this up again for me. 
All happiness befall you and yours this good 
season and ever. — Yours affectionately, 

R. Browning. 



NOTES ON BECKET 
By the Editor 

In 1879 my father printed the first proofs 
of his tragedy of Becket, which he had 
begun in December 1876. But he con- 
sidered that the time was not ripe for its 
publication ; and this therefore was deferred 
until December 1884. We had visited 
Canterbury in August 1877, and gone over 
each separate scene of Becket's martyrdom. 
"Admirers of Becket," my father notes, 
"will find that Becket's letters, and the 
writings of Herbert of Bosham, Fitzstephen, 
and John of Salisbury throw great light on 
those days. Bishop Lightfoot found out 
about Rosamund for me." 

The play is so accurate a representation 
of the personages and of the time, that 
J. R. Green said that all his researches 
into the annals of the twelfth century had 
not given him ' ' so vivid a conception of 
the character of Henry II. and his court as 
was embodied in Tennyson's Becket." 

My father's view of Becket was as fol- 



NOTES 



1003 



lows : Becket was a really great and impvil- 
sive man, with a firm sense of duty, and, 
when he renounced the world, looked upon 
himself as the head of that Church which 
was the people's " tower of strength, their 
bulwark against throne and baronage." 
This idea so far wrought in his dominant 
nature as to betray him into many rash 
acts ; and later he lost himself in the idea. 
His enthusiasm reached a spiritual ecstasy 
which carries the historian along with it ; 
and his humanity and abiding tenderness 
for the poor, the weak and the unprotected, 
heighten the impression so much as to 
make the poet feel passionately the wronged 
Rosamund's reverential devotion for him 
(most touchingly rendered by Ellen Terry), 
when she knelt praying over his body in 
Canterbury Cathedral. 

In 1879 Irving refused the play : but in 
1 891 he asked leave to produce it, holding 
that the taste of the theatre-going public 
had changed in the interval, and that it 
was now likely to be a success on the stage. 

He writes to me (1893) : 

We have passed the fiftieth performance of 
Becket (produced Feb. 6, 1S93), which is in the 
heyday of its success. I think that I may, with- 
out hereafter bein,!:: credited with any inferior 
motive, give again the opinion which I previously 
expressed to your loved and honoured father. 
To me Becket is a very noble play, with some- 
thing of that lofty feeling and that far-reaching 
influence, which belong to a "passion play." 
There are in it moments of passion and pathos 
which are the aim and end of dramatic art, and 
which, when they e.xist, atone to an audience for 
the endurance of long acts. Some of the scenes 
and passages, especially in the last act, are full 
of sublime feeling, and are with regard to both 
their dramatic effectiveness and their poetic 
beauty as fine as anything in our language. I 
know that such a play has an ennobling influence 
on both the audience who see it and the actors 
who play in it. 

Some of the last lines which my father 
ever wrote are at the end of the North- 
ampton scene, an anthem-speech written 
for Irving : 

The voice of the Lord is in the voice of 

the people. 
The voice of the Lord is on the warring 

^^ flood, 
AfTd He will lead His people into peace ! 
The voice of the Lord will shake the 

wilderness. 
The barren wilderness of unbelief ! 



The voice of the Lord will break the cedar- 
trees. 
The Kings and Rulers that have closed 

their ears 
Against the Voice, and at their hour of 

doom 
The voice of the Lord will hush the hounds 

of Hell 
In everlasting silence. 

The play had a long run and was after- 
wards frequently played in the provinces 
and America. The incidental music was 
written by Sir Charles Stanford. His 
identification of Becket witli the Gre- 
gorian melody " Telluris ingens conditor " 
is particularly impressive. 

UNPUBLISHED SONNET 

{ Written originally as a Preface to 

''Becket") 

Old ghosts whose day was done ere mine 

began. 
If earth be seen from your conjectured 

heaven , 
Ye know that History is half-dream — ay 

even 
The man's life in the letters of the man. 
There lies the letter, but it is not he 
As he retires into himself and is : 
Sender and sent-to go to make up this, 
Their offspring of this union. And on me 
Frown not, old ghosts, if I be one of those 
Who make you utter things you did not 

say. 
And mould you all awry and mar your 

worth ; 
For whatsoever knows us truly, knows 
That none can truly write his single day, 
And none can write it for him upon earth. 

P. 693. (Prologue.) Becket as chess- 
player. John of Salisbury and Fit^stephen 
describe him as an accomplished chess- 
player, a master in hunting and falconry, 
and other manly exercises. 

P. 694, col. 2, lines 10, 11. (Prologue.) 

nor my confessor yet. 

I would to God thou wert. 

Archbishop Theobald writes to Becket 

(John of Salisbury, Ep. 78) : "It sounds 

in the ears and mouths of people that 3'ou 

and the king are one heart and soul." 

He helped Henry to improve the state of 



1004 



NOTES 



the country, and to lighten many of the 
oppressive laws and enactments (Lingard, 
vol. ii. ). 

P. 694, col. 2, line 19. (Prologue.) A 
dish- designer. When Becket went to Paris, 
all the French were astonished at his 
sumptuous living. One dish of eels alone 
was said to have cost 100 shillings 
(Fitzstephen, 197, 8, 9). 

P. 699. (Act I. Sc. i.) Cha7nber bai-ely 
furnished. John of Salisbury says, ' ' Con- 
secratus autem statim veterem exuit 
hominem, cilicium et monachum induit. " 

P. 699, col. 2, line 12. (Act i. Sc. i.) 
scutage. The acceptance of a money com- 
pensation for military service dates from 
this time (1159). See Freeman's Norman 
Conquest. 

P. 704. (Act I. Sc. iii. ) In this great 
scene at Northampton (J. R. Green writes) 
' ' his life was said to be in danger, and all 
urged him to submit. But in the presence 
of danger the courage of the man rose to 
its full height. Grasping his archiepiscopal 
cross he entered the royal court, forbade 
the nobles to condemn him, and appealed 
to the Papal See. Shouts of ' Traitor ! 
traitor ! ' followed him as he retired. The 
Primate turned fiercely at the word : ' Were 
I a knight,' he retorted, ' my sword should 
answer that foul taunt.'" — Short History 
of the Efiglish People, p. 108. 

P. 705. (Act I, Sc. iii.) "He (Henry 
n.) wished to put an end to the disgrace- 
ful state of things which had arisen, by 
subjecting clerical offenders against the 
public peace to the same jurisdiction with 
the criminals, and, with a view to this, he 
now required that clerks accused of any 
outrage should be tried in his own courts ; 
that, on conviction or confession, they 
should be degraded by the Church, and 
that they then should be remanded to the 
secular officers for the execution of the 
sentence which had been passed upon 
them. On the other hand, the Archbishop, 
although imsupported by his brethren in 
general, who dreaded a risk of a breach 
with the State while the Church was 
divided by a schism, considered himself 
bound to offer the most strenuous resistance 
to a proposal which tended to lessen the 



privileges of the hierarchy ; and on this 
quarrel the whole of the subsequent history 
turned " [Becket, by Canon Robertson, 
PP- 76, 77)- 

P. 707, col. 2, hne 16. (Act I. Sc. iii. ) 
False to myself — it is the will of God. 
"It is the Lord's will that I perjure 
myself" (Foliot, v. 271, 2). 

P. 710, col. 2, line i. (Act I. Sc. iii.) 
A worldly follower of the worldly strong. 

Foliot fasted much, and was famous for 
his learning, for his subtle trickery, and 
flattery of persons in high station. When 
he was plotting against Becket, he is said 
to have heard ' ' an exceeding terrible voice : 
O Gilberte Foliot 
Dum resolvis tot et tot, 
Deus tuus est Ashtaroth. " 

(Roger Wendover, ii. 323. ) 

P. 711, col. I, line 18. (Act I. Sc. iii.) 
Hence, Satan! See Alan of Tewkesbury, 
i. 347. 

P. 712, col. 2, lines 11, 12. (Act I. 
Sc, iv.) 
But I that threw the mightiest knight of 

France, 
Sir Engelram de Trie. 

In 1 159 Becket, in cuirass and helmet, 
marched at the head of his troops against 
the County of Toulouse, which had passed 
to Henry on his marriage with Eleanor, 
and there he unhorsed in single combat 
Sir Engelram de Trie. 

P. 712, col. 2, hne 16. (Act i. Sc. iv. ) 
Deal gently with the young man Absalom. 
(Fitzstephen, i. 236 ; Foliot, iii. 280 ; 
Roger of Hoveden, 284.) 

P. 712. (Act I. Sc. iv. ) For Becket's 
entertainment of the poor and his washing 
of their feet see Fitzstephen, 204 ; John of 
Salisbury, 324 ; Herbert of Bosham, 24. 
My father regretted the excision of this 
scene and of his Walter Map scenes from 
the Acting Edition. 

P. 714, col. 2, line i. (Act I. Sc. iv. ) / 
must fly to France to-night. Not long after 
he landed in France, under the assumed 
name of Brother Christian, a boy, who was 
standing by the roadside with a hawk on 



NOTES 



1005 



his wrist, was attracted by the evident 
pleasure with which the stranger eyed his 
bird, and cried out, " Here goes the Arch- 
bishop. " At Gravelines the landlord of 
the inn where he spent the night had longer 
time for observation, and recognised him, 
as Herbert of Bosham says, ' ' by his re- 
markably tall figure, his high forehead, the 
stern expression of his beautiful counten- 
ance, and, above all, by the exquisite 
delicacy of his hands" (Hurrell Froude's 
Remains, vol. iv. p. 91). 

P. 716, col. 2, lines 10, 11. (Act 11. 
Sc. i.) 

/ have sent his folk, 
His kin, all his belongitigs, overseas. 

Edward Grim of Cambridge writes : 
' ' Those of whom God especially styles Him- 
self the Father and Judge — orphans, widows, 
children altogether innocent, and unknow- 
ing of any discord, aged men, women with 
their little ones hanging at their breasts, 
clerks, and lay folk of whatever age and sex, 
of the Archbishop's kindred, and some of his 
friends, were seized in the depth of winter, 
and mercilessly transported beyond sea, 
after having been obliged to swear that they 
would seek him out" (Grim, 1-51). 

P. 720, col. 2, line 21. (Act 11. Sc. ii. ) 
Saving Gods honour. Becket substituted 
this phrase in place of ' ' salvo ordine nostro, ' ' 
which had been objected to by Henry. The 
King would not allow any difference, and 
burst into uncontrollable fury (John of 
Salisbury, ii. ). Becket wrote to the Pope 
after Montmirail : ' ' We answered ... we 
were prepared to yield him (the king) 
every service, even more than our pre- 
decessors had done saving my order ; but 
that new obligations, unbeknown to the 
Church, and such as my predecessors were 
never bound by, ought not to be under- 
taken by us : first, because it was bad as a 
precedent ; secondly, because, when in the 
city of Sens, your Holiness' self absolved 
me from the observance of these Usages, 
hateful *5 God and to the Church, and 
from tlTe pledge which force and fear had 
extorted from me in a special manner ; and 
after a grave rebuke, which, by God's grace, 
shall never pass from my mind, prohibited 
me from ever again obliging myself to any 
one on a like cause except saving God's 



honour and my order. You added too, if 
you are pleased to recollect, that not even 
to save his hfe should a Bishop oblige 
himself, saving God's honour and his order " 
(Hurrell Froude's Remains, vol. iv. p. 389). 

P. 722. col. I, line 5. (Act ii. Sc. ii.) 
let a stranger spoil his heritage. Cf. 
Psalm cix. 

P. 722, col. I, line 25 ff. (Act 11. Sc. ii. ) 
My father's note is : " The description of 
Bosham was made as we (my son Hallam 
and I) saw the Httle fishing village on a 
summer's day." 

P. 729, col. 2, line 35. (Act ill. Sc. iii. ) 
The danghtcr of Z ion lies beside the way. 
Lamentations i.-ii. 

P. 729, col. 2, lines 34, 35. (Act ill. 
Sc- iii. ) 
The sfotise of the Great King, thy King, 

hath fallen — 
The daughter of Zion lies beside the way. 

See Becket's Ep. i. 63, in Hurrell 
Froude's Remains, iv. 139. The Arch- 
bishop to the King of England : "I 
entreat you, O my Lord, to bear with me 
for a while that by the grace of God I may 
disburden my conscience, to the benefit of 
my soul. . . . My Lord, the daughter of 
Zion is held captive in thy kingdom. The 
spouse of the Great King is oppressed by 
her enemies, afflicted by those who ought 
most to honour her, and especially by you. " 

See, too, the Archbishop of Canterbury 
to the Pope (after Fr^teval), Hurrell 
Froude's Retnains, iv. 503: "God hath 
looked with an eye of pity on His Church, 
and changed at length her sorrow into joy. 
The King of England, as soon as he had 
received your last letters, and understood 
that you would no longer spare him, even 
as you had not spared the Emperor 
Frederic, but would lay his territories under 
an Interdict, forthwith made peace with us, 
to the honour of God, as we would hope, 
and the great advantage of His Church. 
The Usages which were once so insisted 
upon, he did not even allude to. He 
exacted no oath of us, or any belonging to 
us. He restored to us the possessions 
which we had been deprived of, according 
to the enumeration of them in our own 
schedule ; and, with them, peace and 



ioo6 



NOTES 



security, and a return from our exile to all 
our companions ; and even promised the 
kiss, if we wished to press him so far. In 
short he gave way in everything, insomuch 
that some called him perjured, who had 
heard him swear that he would not admit 
us to the kiss that day." 

P. 730, col. I, line 11. (Act ill. Sc. iii. ) 
And thou shalt crown my Henry o'er agaiti. 
Upon this Becket dismounted and pre- 
pared to throw himself at Henry's feet, 
but Henry also dismounted, and em- 
braced the Archbishop, and held his 
stirrup for him in order that he might 
remount. 

P. 732 (Act IV. Sc. ii.) "That Rosa- 
mund was not killed may be ascertained 
by the charters ..." (see vol. i. p. 213, 
Miss Strickland's Lives of Queens ' of 
Engla?id). 

P. 742, col. I, line 22. (Act V. Sc. ii. ) 
uxor pauperis Ibyci (Horace, Carin. iii. 
XV. i). 

P. 743, col. I, line 4. (Act v. Sc. ii. ) 
From " On a Tuesday was I born " to the 
end of the play is founded on the graphic 
accounts by Fitzstephen, and Grim, the 
monk of Cambridge, who was with Becket 
in Scenes ii. and iii. 

P. 745, col. I, line 19. (Act v. Sc. ii. ) 
When God makes up his jewels. Malachi 
iii. 17. 

APPENDIX TO NOTES ON BECKET 
Letter from The Right Honourable J. Bryce 

As I have been abroad for some time it was only 
a little while ago that I obtained and read your 
Becket. AVill you, since you were so kind as to 
read me some of it last July, let me tell you how 
much enjoyment and light it has given me? 
Impressive as were the parts read, it impresses 
one incomp.arably more when studied as a whole. 
One cannot imagine a more vivid, a more per- 
fectly faithful picture than it gives both of Henry 
and of Thomas. Truth in history is naturally 
truth in poetry ; but you have made the 
characters of the two men shine out in a way 
which, while it never deviates from the im- 
pression history gives of them, goes beyond and 
perfects history. This is eminently conspicuous 
in the way their relations to one another are 
traced ; and in the delineation of the influence 
on Thomas of the conception of the Church, 
blending with his own haughty spirit and 
sanctifying it to his own conscience. There is 



not, it seems to me, anything in modern poetry 
which helps us to realize, as your drama does, 
the sort of power the Church exerted on her 
ministers : and this is the central fact of the 
earlier middle ages. I wish you v/ere writing a 
play on Hildebrand also. Venturing to say this 
to you from the point of view of a student of 
history, I scarcely presume to speak of the drama 
on its more purely literary side, how full of 
strength and beauty and delicacy it is, because 
you must have heard this often already from 
more competent critics. 



NOTES ON THE CUP 

By the Editor 

Founded on a story in Plutarch. The 
story was first read by my father in Lecky : 

A powerful noble once solicited the hand of a 
Galatian lady named Camma, who, faithful to 
her husband, resisted all his entreaties. Re- 
solved at any hazard to succeed, he caused her 
husband to be assassinated, and when she took 
refuge in the temple of Diana, and enrolled her- 
self among the priestesses, he sent noble after 
noble to induce her to relent. After a time he 
ventured himself into her presence. She feigned 
a willingness to yield, but told him it was first 
necessary to make a libation to the goddess. 
She appeared as a priestess before the altar 
bearing in her hand a cup of wine, which she 
had poisoned. She drank half of it herself, 
handed the remainder to her guilty lover, and 
when he had drained the cup to the dregs, burst 
into a fierce thanksgiving that she had been per- 
mitted to avenge, and was soon to rejoin, her 
murdered husband. (Plutarch, Z)^iT/?^/z>r. Virf.) 

The Cup was first published with The 
Falcon in 1884 ; planned in March 1879, 
begun in November 1879', and printed late 
in 1880. Produced at the Lyceum, Jan. 3, 
1 88 1, and ran for one hundred and twenty- 
eight nights. 

At Irving's request three short speeches 
for Synorix were added, Act I. Sc. iii. ; 
and at the end of Act i. Sc. ii. , pp. 207- 
208, the quarrel between Sinnatus and 
Synorix was lengthened by two lines, and 
Camma was made to interrogate Sinnatus 
as to what Synorix had said, and three or 
four entrances were made less abrupt. 
Irving inserted most of the stage-directions, 
and devised the magnificent scenery, and 
the drama was produced by him with 
signal success at the Lyceum, and played 
to crowded houses. He wrote to my 
father : " I hope that the splendid success 
of your grand Tragedy will be followed by 
other triumphs equally great. " 



NOTES 



1007 



While Miss Mary Anderson was acting 
in The Winter s Tale in London she 
signed an agreement to revive The Clip. 
My father reinserted from his first MS. 
four hnes for her, to be sung by the 
priestesses as they enter the Temple : 

Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O mother, hear 

us and bless us ! 
Artemis, thou that art life to the wind, to 

the wave, to the glebe, to the fire. 
Hear thy people who praise thee ! O 

help us from all that oppress us. 
Hear thy priestesses hymn thy glory I O 

yield them all their desire. 

P. 751, col. 2, line 24. (Act I. Sc. i. ) 
/ here return like Tarquin—for a crown. 

This refers to Tarquinius Superbus, the 
last king of Rome, who was expelled 510 
B.C. in consequence of the outrage by his 
son on Lucretia, the wife of his cousin, 
Tarquinius Collatinus. The last effort of 
Tarquin to recover his crown was ex- 
hausted by the decisive victory gained by 
the Romans over him at Lake Regillus, 
490 B.C. It is related that he died miser- 
ably at Cumae. 

P. 752, col. I, line 15. (Act I. Sc. i. ) 
the net, — the net. Cf. Horace, Ode i. i. 
28 et passim. 

P- 755- col. I, line 4. (Act i. Sc, ii.) 
"Some friends of mind" in first edition 
misprint for " Some friends of mine." 

P. 765, col. 2, line 20. (Act 11.) some 
old Greek. See Plato's Apology, Church's 
translation : ' ' And if we reflect in another 
way, we shall see that we may well hope 
that death is a good. For the state of 
death is one of two things : either the 
dead wholly cease to be and lose all sensa- 
tion, or death (as is commonly believed) a 
change and a migration of the soul into 
another place. Now if death is the 
absence of all sensation, and hfe a dream- 
less sleep, it will be a wonderful gain. . . . 
But if it is a passing to another place, and 
the common belief be true, that all who have 
died are there, what could be greater than 
this? . . . What one would not give to 
converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and 
Hesiod and Homer ! I am willing to die 
many times if this be true." 



P. 7G6, col. 2, line 6. (Act 11.) 
' Gamma, Gamma I' Sinnatus, Sinnaius / 

The blank verse ending the play, with 
only four beats, gives the passion of 
Gamma's death-cry. 



NOTES ON THE FALCON 

By the Editor 

P. 767. The Falcon. First published 
in 1884. Founded on a story in Boc- 
caccio (the ninth novel of the fifth day 
of the Decameron), and produced by Mr. 
and Mrs. Kendal at the St. James' Theatre, 
who played it for sixty-seven nights. 

Hazlitt first suggested the story as suit- 
able for stage treatment. Fanny Kemble 
called the play "an exquisite little idyll in 
action like one of A. de Musset's. " Mrs. 
Brotherton writes to me : ' ' Well do I 
remember your father reading The Falcon 
to me (still in MS.), in a httle attic at 
Farringford. The ivy outside was blowing 
against the casement like pattering rain, 
all the time. When he had finished he 
softly closed the simple ' copy-book' it was 
written in, and said softly, ' Stately and 
tender, isn't it ? ' exactly as if he were com- 
menting on another man's work — and no 
more just comment could have come from 
the whole world of critics." 



NOTES ON THE PROMISE 

OF MAY 

By the Editor 

First prose version printed in 1882, and 
revised and published in 1886 w'wh Locksley 
Hall Sixty Years After. It was produced 
by Mrs. Bernard Beere at the Globe 
Theatre on Nov. nth, 1882, and ran 
until Dec. 15th. The first printed copies 
in prose, which were used for stage pur- 
poses, were not published in 1882, as my 
father wished to write part of the drama in 
poetry for the reading public. 

Edgar is " a surface man of theories true 
to none." I subjoin the analysis of the 
hero's character by my brother, as it best 
gives my father's conception. 



ioo8 



NOTES 



Edgar is not, as the critics will have it, a free- 
thinker, drawn into crime by his Communistic 
theories ; Edgar is not even an honest Radical, 
nor a sincere follower of Schopenhauer ; he is 
nothing thorough and nothing sincere. He has 
no conscience until he is brought face to face with 
the consequences of his crime, and in the awaken- 
ing of that conscience the poet has manifested his 
fullest and subtlest strength. At our first intro- 
duction to Edgar, we see him perplexed with the 
haunting of a pleasure that has sated him. " Let 
us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die " has been 
his motto ; but we can detect that his appetite 
for all pleasure has begun to pall. He repeats 
wearily the formulae of a pliilosophy which he has 
followed because it suits his mode of life. He 
plays with these formuljE, but they do not satisfy 
him. So long as he had on him the zest of liber- 
tinism he did not, in all probability, trouble him- 
self with philosophy. But now his selfishness 
compels him to take a step of which he feels the 
wickedness and repugnancy. He must endeavour 
to justify himself to himself. The companionship 
of the girl he has betrayed no longer gives him 
pleasure ; he hates her tears because thej^ remind 
him of himself— his proper self. He abandons 
her with a pretence of satisfaction ; but the philo- 
sophical formulae he repeats no more satisfy him 
than they satisfy the poor girl whom he deserts. 
Her innocence has not, however, been wantonly 
sacrificed by the dramatist. She has sown the 
seed of repentance in her seducer, though the fruit 
is slow in ripening. Years after he returns, like 
the ghost of a murderer to the scene of his crime. 
He feels remorse. He is ashamed of it ; he battles 
against it ; he hurls the old formulae at it ; he acts 
the cynic more thoroughly than ever. But he is 
changed. He feels a desire to "make amends." 
Yet that desire is still only a form of selfishness. 
He has abandoned the "Utopian Idiocy" of 
Communism. Perhaps, as he says, with a self- 
mockery that makes the character so individual 
and remarkable, "because he has inherited 
estates." His position of gentleman is forced on 
his notice ; he would qualify himself for it, selfishly 
and without doing excessive penance. To marry 
the surviving sister and rescue the old father 
from ruin would be a meritorious act. He sets 
himself to perform it. At first everything goes 
well for him ; the old weapons of fascination, that 
had worked the younger sister's ruin, now con- 
quer the heart of the elder. He is comfortable 
in his scheme of reparation, and lays that flatter- 
ing " unction to his soul." 

Suddenly, however, the girl whom he has be- 
trayed, and whom he thought dead, returns ; she 
hears him repeating to another the words of love 
she herself had heard from him and believed. 
" Edgar ! " she cries, and staggers forth from her 
concealment, as she forgives him with her last 
breath. 

Then, and not till then, the true soul of the 
man rushes to his lips ; he recognizes his wicked- 
ness, he knows the blankness of his life. That is 
his punishment. 

He feels then, and will always feel, aspirations 
after good which he can never or only imperfectly 
fulfil. The position of independence, on which 
he prided himself, is wrested from him, he is 
humiliated. The instrument of his selfish repent- 



ance turns on him with a forgiveness that annihil- 
ates him ; the bluff and honest farmer whom he 
despises triumphs over him, not with the brute 
force of an avenging hand, but with the pre- 
eminence of superior morality. Edgar quits the 
scene, never again, we can believe, to renew his 
libertine existence, but to expiate with lifelong 
contrition the monstrous wickedness of the past. 

My father drew his characters from the 
Lincohishire country life of his boyhood 
carefully, and wrote, when the play was 
violently attacked by Lord Queensberry : 
" I had a feeling that I would at least strive 
in my plays to bring the true drama of life 
and character back again. I gave them 
one leaf out of the great book of Truth 
and Nature." 

P. 781, col. I, line 19. (Act I.) 

What are -we, says the bU7id old man in 

Learf 
Cf. Ki7ig Lea7', IV. i. 38 : 

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods ; 
They kill us for their sport. 

P. 790, col. I, line 24. (Act ii.) 
Scizzars an Ptimpy. Caesar and Pompey. 

P. 794, col. 2, line 37. (Act ill.) 
O ina?i, forgive thy mortal foe. 

This is the only hymn my father has 
written, except "The Human Cry " at the 
end of De Proftmdis (p. 533), which he 
wrote at Jowett's request. 

In 1891 he said to Dr. Warren, the 
present Professor of Poetry at Oxford : "A 
good hymn is the most difficult thing in 
the world to write. In a good hymn you 
have to be commonplace and poetical. 
The moment you cease to be commonplace 
and put in any expression at all out of the 
common, it ceases to be a hymn. Of 
hymns I like Heber's ' Holy, Holy, Holy ' 
better than most — it is a fine metre too." 
He said that Jowett had liked the simple 
hymn for children in The Promise of May. 
He would often quote this passage from 
the version of the Psalms by Sternhold and 
Hopkins : 

' ' And on the wings of all the winds 
Came flying all abroad." 

P. 796, col. I, hne 7. (Act in.) the 
Quee7is Real Hard Tillery. The Royal 
Artillery. 



NOTES 



1009 



NOTES ON THE FORESTERS 

By the Editor 

Written eleven years before publication 
in 1 88 1. First published and performed 
in 1892. 

On March 25th The Foresters was pro- 
duced at New York by Daly, the incidental 
music being by Sir Arthur Sullivan. It 
gave my father great pleasure to hear that 
American people were ' ' appreciative of 
the fancy and of the beauty, and especially 
of the songs and of the wise sayings about 
Hfe in which the woodland play abounds." ^ 
The houses were packed and the play had 
a long and most successful run. 

Before the production my father wrote 
to Daly : 

I wish you all success with my Robin Hood 
and Maid Marian. From what I know of Miss 
Ada Rehan I am sure that she will play her part 
to perfection, and I am certain that under your 
management, with the music by one so popular as 
Sir Arthur Sullivan, with the costumes fashioned 
after the old designs in the British Museum, with 
the woodland scenes taken from Mr. V/hymper's 
beautiful pictures of the Sherwood of to-day, my 
play will be produced to advantage both in 
America and in England. I am told that your 
company is good, and that Mr. Jefferson once 
belonged to it. When he was in England, I saw 
him \)\a.y Ri/> I'an Winkle, and assuredly nothing 
could have been better. 

With all cordial greetings to my American 
friends, I remain faithfully j^ours, 

Tennyson. 

And after the production he received the 
following from Miss Ada Rehan : 

Let me add my congratulations to the many 
on the success of The Foresters. I cannot tell 
you how delighted I was when I felt and saw, 
from the first, the joy it was giving to our large 
audience. Its charm is felt by all. Let me 
thank you for myself for the honour of playing 
your Maid Marian, which I have learned to 
love, for while I am playing the part I feel all its 
beauty and simplicity and sweetness, which make 
me feel for the time a happier and a better woman. 
I am indeed proud of its great success for your 
sake as well as my own. 

P-S. — The play is now one week old, and each 
audience has been larger than the last and all as 
sympathetic as the first. 

And Professor Jebb wrote : 

Being here on my way to the Johns Hopkins 
University at Baltimore, where I have some Lec- 



Jowett. 



tures to give, I naturally went to see The Foresters 
at Augustin Daly's last night. The Theatre, 
which is of moderate size, was densely packed, 
and as I had not engaged my seat by cablegram 
from Liverpool, I bore no resemblance, in respect 
of spacious comfort, to the ideal spectator, the 
masher or "dude," depicted on the play-bill 
which I send you by this post. I was a highly 
compressed and squalid object in a back seat, 
amid a seething mass of humanity, but I saw the 
play very well. It was very cordially received 
and was well acted, I thought, especially by Ada 
Rehan and Drew. The fairy scene in the third 
Act was perfectly lovely, and the lyrics were 
everywhere beautifully given. The mounting of 
the play was excellent throughout. 

The criticism of The Foresters which 
pleased my father most was in a letter 
addressed to Lady Martin (Miss Helen 
Faucit) by the eminent Shakespearian 
scholar, Mr. Horace Furness of Phil- 
adelphia, when the piece was being per- 
formed in New York : 

After dinner we went to see The Foresters. 
Men and women — of a different time, to be sure, 
but none too good "for human nature's daily 
food " — live their idyllic lives before you, and 
you feel that al! is good, very good. The atmo- 
sphere is so real, and we fall into it so completely, 
that, Americans though we be through and 
through, we can listen with hearty assent to the 
chorus that " There is no land like England," 
and that "There are no wives like English wives." 
Nay, come to think of it, that song was encored. 
It was charming, charming from beginning to 
end. And Miss Rehan acted to perfection. I 
hadto leave in the midnight train for home, and 
during two hours' driving through the black night, 
I smoked and reflected on the unalloyed charm 
of such a drama. And to see the popularity, too ! 
It had been running manj' weeks — six, I think — 
and the theatre was full, not a seat unoccupied. 
I do revel, I confess, in such a proof as this that 
there will always be a full response to what is fine 
and good, and that the modern sensational French 
drama is not our true exponent. 

P. 812. (Act I. Sc. iii.) To Sleep. 
First published in New Review, 1891, and 
set to music by my mother. (See Mile. 
Janotha's edition of Lady Tennyson's 
songs, published by Novello. ) 

P. 816, coh I, line 38. (Act 11. Sc. i. ) 
wickentree, mountain-ash. 

P. 821. Act 11. Sc. ii. ad Jlnetn. The 
whole stage lights up, and fairies are seefi 
swinging on boughs and nestling in hollow 
trunks, etc. 

My father said to Mr. Daly : "I don't 
care for The Foresters as I do for Becket 

3T 



NOTES 



and Harold. Irving suggested the fairies 
in my Robin Hood, else I should not have 
dreamed of trenching on Shakespeare's 
ground in that way. Then Irving wrote 
to me that the play was not ' sensational ' 
enough for an English public. It is a 
woodland pla)"- — a pastoral without shep- 
herds. The great stage-drama is wholly 
unlike most of the drama of modern times. 
I do not like the idea of every scene being 
obliged to end with a bang." About 
' ' There is no land like England," he added, 
' ' I wrote that song when I was nine- 
teen. It has a beastly chorus against the 
French, and I must alter that if you will 
have it." 

P. 825, col. I, line 18, (Act iii. Sc. i.) 
torrents of eddying bark. I heard my father 
first use these words about the great trunks 
of the Spanish chestnuts in Cowdray Park 
near Midhurst. He and I stayed in Sher- 
wood Forest in 1881, at the time when he 
was writing The Foresters. 

P. 827, col. 2, line i. (Act ill. Sc. i. ) 
Instead of the short scene between Robin 
and Marian, beginning " Honour to thee, 
brave Marian," to " my will, and made it 
thine," my father had written in the first 
proof of the play the following lively and 
charming scene, which he cut out when 
Miss Mary Anderson was to have acted 
Marian^ : — 

Robin 

Honour to thee, brave Marian, and thy 

Kate. 
I know them arrant knaves in Nottingham. 
One half of this shall go to those that they 

have wrong'd. 
One half shall pass into our treasury. 

Marian 

My father has none with him. See to hini, 
Kate. 

{^Exit Kate. 

Robin 

Where lies that cask of wine whereof we 

plunder'd 
The Norman prelate? 

^ She fell ill and left the stage, else she was to 
have played in The Foresters and T/ie Cup. 



Little John 

In that oak, where twelve 
Can stand upright, nor touch each other. ^ 

Robin 

Good ! 
Roll it in here. These beggars and these 

friars 
Shall drink the health of our new woodland 
Queen. 

[^Exeiint Robin's men. 
[To Marian) And now that thou hast 

triumph'd as our Queen, 
I have a mind to embrace thee as our 
Queen. 

Marian {frantically) 

Quiet, Robin, quiet. You lovers are 
such summer flies, always buzzing at the 
face of your lad3\ 

Robin 

Say rather we are bees that fly to the 
flower for honey. 

Marian 

Your soul should worship her soul, your 
heart her heart, and all your thoughts 
should be higher-winged in the spiritual 
heaven of love. 

. Robin 

Ay, but we lovers are not cherubim, 
wings and no more. 

Marian 

True, Robin, thou art plump enough for 
my robin, but thy face is too gaunt for a 
cherub's. 

Robin 

Yet I would I were a winged cherub, 
that I might fly and hide myself in thy 
bosom. 

Marian 

Ay, but, cherub, if thou flewest so close 
as that, I should fly like the maid in the 
heathen fable when the would-be god lost 
his nymph in the wood. 

Robin 

What was she ? 

1 The oak described here was standing in 
Sherwood Forest when we visited it in 1881. 



NOTES 



Marian 

I forget. The Maid Marian of these 
times belike. 

Robin 

And how did he lose her ? 

Marian 

As many men lose many women if they 
fly too near — as thou mayest lose me in 
this forest. She turned herself into a 
laurel. 

Robin 

I would have gathered the leaves, and 
made a crown of it, 

Marian 

And the laurel would have withered in a 
day, and the nymph would have been dead 
wood to thee for ever. 

Robin 

No, no ; I would have clasped and 
kissed, and warmed the dead wood till it 
broke again into living leaf, 

Marian 

Well, well, to tell love's truth, I sighed 
for a touch of thy lips a year ago, but the 
Sheriff has come between us. Is it not all 
over now — gone like a deer that hath 
escaped from thine arrow? 

Robin 

What deer, when I have marked him, 
ever escaped from mine arrow? The 
Sheriff — over is it ? Wilt thou give me thy 
hand upon that ? 

Marian 
Take it. 

Robin 

The Sheriff ! \Kisses her hand. 

This ring cries out against thee. Say it 

again. 
And by this ring, the lips that never 

breathed 
Love's falsehood to true maid will seal 

love's truth 
On tlTbse sweet lips that dare to dally 

with it. 



P. 842. [Demeter and other Poems 
was dedicated to Lord Dufferin as a tribute 



of affection and of gratitude for the unre- 
mitting kindness shown by Lady Dufferin 
and himself to my brother Lionel during 
his last fatal illness in India. From earliest 
childhood Lionel's had always been an 
affectionate and beautiful nature. None of 
his age in the India Office, where he was 
for some time a clerk, knew more about 
India, and I have not a few letters from 
his chiefs, speaking in the warmest terms 
of his ability, and of the high place that, 
had he lived, he would have made for him- 
self. While shooting in Assam he caught 
jungle fever. On his return to Calcutta he 
fell dangerously ill, and never recovered. 
He started for home at the beginning of 
April, and passed away peacefully at three 
in the afternoon of April 20th. The burial 
service was at nine that same evening, under 
a great silver moon. The ship stopped off 
Perim, in the Red Sea, and the coffin was 
lowered into the phosphorescent waves. — 
Ed.] 

P. 842. To the Marquis of Dufferin 
AND AvA. [First published in 1889. See 
Me?noir, vol. ii. pp. 322-323. — Ed.] 

P. 843, On the Jubilee of Queen 
Victoria. [Published in pamphlet form 
and '\\\ Macviillan s Magazine, April 1887, 
on the fiftieth anniversary of the Queen's 
coronation. — Ed.] 

P. 844. To Professor Jebb. ' [First 
published in 1889. My father met Jebb 
at Cambridge for the first time in 1872. 
He gave him the following Sapphic in 
English with the Greek cadence, because 
Jebb admired it : — 
Faded ev'ry violet, all the roses ; 
Gone the glorious promise ; and the victim, 
Broken in this anger of Aphrodite, 
Yields to the victor. 

What impressed my father most in this 
visit to Cambridge was the change in the 
relations between don and undergraduate. 
While he was keeping his terms (1828- 
1831) there was "a great gulf fixed" be- 
tween the teacher and the taught. As he 
said to Dr. Butler, the present Master of 
Trinity: "There was a want of love in 
Cambridge then" ; and in consequence he 
had written in 1830 these denunciatory 
lines : 



NOTES 



Therefore your Halls, your ancient Colleges, 
Your portals statued with old kings and 

queens, 
Your gardens, myriad-volumed libraries, 
Wax -lighted chapels, and rich carven 

screens, 
Your doctors, and your proctors, and your 

deans, 
Shall not avail you, when the Day-beam 

sports 
New-risen o'er awaken 'd Albion. No ! 
Nor yet yom- solemn organ-pipes that blow 
Melodious thunders thro' your vacant courts 
At noon and eve, because your manner 

sorts 
Not with this age wherefrom ye stand 

apart. 
Because the lips of little children preach 
Against you, you that do profess to teach 
And teach us nothing, feeding not the 

heart. Ed.] 

P. 844. Demeter and Persephone, 
[First published in 1889. Cf. the Homeric 
Hymn to Demeter; Hesiod, Theog. 912 
ff. ; and Ovid, Met. v. 341, and Fasti, iv. 
419 ff. The poem was written at m)' 
request, because I knew that my father con- 
sidered Demeter one of the most beautiful 
types of womanhood. He said : "I will 
write it, but when I write an antique like 
this I must put it into a frame — something 
modern about it. It is no use giving a 
mere rdchauffd of old legends. " He would 
give as an example of the frame : 
Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill-content 

And all the Shadow die into the Light. 

To Sign or Francisco Clementi, who 
translated this poem into Italian and told 
my father that the Italian youth were grate- 
ful to him and had profited much by his 
work, he wrote, Feb. 4th, 1891 : "I send 
you my best thanks for yoiir kind and 
generous commentary. If I have done 
any good to your countrymen or others, 
by what I have written, that is more grate- 
ful to me than any modern fame, which to 
a man nearing 82 — for I was born in 1809 
— seems somewhat pale and colourless. ' ' — 
Ed.] 

P. 845, col. I, lines 18, 19. gave thy 
breast, the breast which had suckled thee. 



P. 845, col. 2, lines 19-22. 
' Where ' ? and I heaj'd one voice from all 

the three 
' We know not, for we spin the lives of 

me?i. 
And not of Gods, and know not why we 

spin ! 
There is a Fate beyond us. ' 

Cf. 
' Taliasaecla,' suis dixerunt, ' currite,' fusis 
Concordes stabili fatorum numine Parcae. 
Virgil, Fcl. iv. 46. 

P. 846, col. 2, line 9. beams down. [Cf. 
Aesch. Prom. Vinct. 907, etc. : 

7] fjirjv €TL Ze^is, KdlTrep avdddrjs tppevCjv 
€(XTai Taireivbs, k.t.X. Ed.] 

P. 847. OwD ROA. [First published in 
1889. — Ed.] I read in one of the daily 
papers of a child saved by a black retriever 
from a burning house. The details in 
this story are, of course, mine. When the 
Spectator, reviewing The Notihern Farmer, 
etc. , remarked that I must have found 
these poems difficult to accomplish, as 
being out of my way, I wrote to a friend 
that they were easy enough, for I knew the 
men — by which I meant the kind of men 
and their manner of speaking, not any par- 
ticular individual. 

P. 849, col. I, line 19. Or like tother 
Hangel, etc. See Judges xiii. 20. 

P. 850. Vastness. [First published in 
The Nineteenth Century, November 1885 ; 
afterwards in Demeter and other Poems, 
1889. — Ed.] The last line means " What 
matters anything in this world without faith 
in the immortality of the soul and of 
Love? " 

P. 851. The Ring. [First published in 
1889.— Ed.] 

P. 852, col. I, lines 11-18. 

the Voices of the day 
Are heard across the Voices of the dark. 
No sudden heaven, nor sudden hell, for 

man. 
But thro' the Will of One who hiows a?id 

rules — 
And utter knowledge is but utter love — 
.^onia7i Evolution, swift or slorv, 



NOTES 



1013 



Thro' all the Spheres — an ever opening 

height, 
An ever lessening earth. 

[My father would quote these lines as 
giving his own belief that " the after-life is 
one of progress."- — Ed.] 

P. 852, col. 2, line 3, 
The lonely maiden- Princess of the wood. 
See The Day-Dreajn. 
P. 853, col. 2, line 14. 
A thousand squares of com and ineadow, 

far 
As the gray deep, a landscape -which your 

eyes 
Have many a time ranged over when a 

babe. 
[The view from Aldworth, — Ed.] 

P. 858, col. 2, hnes 2, 3. 

A red mark ran 
A II round one finger. 

Mr. Lowell told me this legend, or some- 
thing like it, of a house near where he had 
once lived. 

[In answer to a letter respecting the 
legend Mr. Lowell writes : " I shall only 
be too glad to be in any the remotest way 
the moving cause of a new poem by one to 
whom we are all so nobly indebted. Henry 
James, by the way, to whom I told the 
legend many years ago, made it the 
subject of a short story. But this would 
be no objection, for the poet would 
make it his own by right of eminent 
domain." — Ed.] 

P. 859. FOKLORN. [An early poem, first 
published in 1889. — Ed.] 

P. 860. Happy. [First published in 1889. 
On the Power of Spiritual Love. — Ed. ] 

P. 863. To Ulysses. Ulysses was the 
title of a volume of Palgrave's essays. He 
died at Monte Video before seeing my 
poem. [First published in 1889. My 
father used to say : ' ' Gifford Palgrave is 
the cleverest man I ever saw." — Ed. ] 

P. 863. Verse vii. 

Or watch the waving pine which here 
The warrior of Caprera set. 
A Wellingtonia which Garibaldi planted 
when at Farringford in April 1864. Gari- 



baldi said to me, alluding to his barren 
island (Caprera), " I wish I had your 
trees." See Introduction. 

P. 864. To Mary Boyle. [Written 
at Farringford and first published in 1889. 
Mary Boyle was an aunt of my wife's 
(Audrey Tennyson, tUe Boyle). In 1883 
my father wrote to her : "I verily believe 
that the better heart of me beats stronger 
at 74 than ever it did at 18." — Ed.] 

P. 864. Verse iv. your Marian. Lady 
Marian Alford. 

P. 865. Verse x. an English home- 
stead Hell. Near Cambridge, 1830. [See 
Memoir, vol. i. p. 41. Cf. The Princess, 
IV. : 

As of some fire against a stormy cloud. 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the 

rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 
heavens. Ed. ] 

P. 865. The Progress of Spring. 
[Written in early youth. First published 
in 1889. — Ed.] 

P. 866. Verse v. 
The starling claps his tiny castanets. 

[My father said in 1889: "This line 
was written fifty-six years ago under the 
elms on the sloping field at Somersby, and 
then four or five years ago I see the same 
phrase (before the poem was published) in 
a modern novel, not taken from the poem, 
I presume, but I suppose the critics would 
not believe that," — Ed.] 

P. 867. Merlin and the Gleam. 
[First published in 1889. — Ed.] In the 
story of Merlin and Niniue I have read 
that Nimue means the "Gleam," which 
signifies in my poem the higher poetic 
imagination. Verse iv. is the early 
imagination ; Verse v. alludes to the 
Pastorals. 

[For those who cared to know about his 
literary history he wrote Merlin and the 
Gleam. From his boyhood he had felt the 
magic of Merlin — that spirit of poetry — 
which bade him know his power and follow 
throughout his work a pure and high ideal, 
with a simple and single devotedness and 
a desire to ennoble the life of the world, 
and which helped him through doubts and 



10I4 



NOTES 



difficulties to " endure as seeing Him who 
is invisible." 

Great the Master, 

And sweet the Magic, 

When over the valley, 

In early summers, 

Over the mountain, 

On human faces, 

And all around me. 

Moving to melody. 

Floated the Gleam. 
In his youth he sang of the brook 
flov^'ing through his upland valley, of the 
" ridged vi^olds " that rose above his home, 
of the mountain-glen and snowy summits 
of his early dreams, and of the beings, 
heroes and fairies, with which his imaginary 
world was peopled. Then was heard the 
"croak of the raven," the harsh voice of 
those who were unsympathetic — 

The light retreated, 

The landskip darken'd, 

The melody deaden'd, 

The Master whisper' d 

" Follow the Gleam." 
Still the inward voice told him not to be 
faint-hearted but to follow his ideal. And 
by the delight in his own romantic fancy, 
and by the harmonies of nature, ' ' the 
warble of water, " and "cataract music of 
faUing torrents," the inspiration of the 
poet was renewed. His Eclogues and 
English Idyls followed, when he sang the 
songs of country life and the joys and 
griefs of country folk, which he knew 
through and through. 

Innocent maidens, 

Garrulous children, 

Homestead and harvest. 

Reaper and gleaner, 

And rough-ruddy faces 

Of lowly labour. 

By degrees, having learnt somewhat of 
the real philosophy of life and of humanity 
from his own experience, he rose to a 
melody "stronger and statelier." He 
celebrated the glory of ' ' human love and 
of human heroism " and of human thought, 
and began what he had already devised, his 
Epic of King Arthur, ' ' typifying above all 
things the life of man," wherein he had 
intended to represent some of the great 
religions of the world. He had purposed 



that this was to be the chief work of his 
manhood. Yet the death of his friend, 
Arthur Hallam, and the consequent darken- 
ing of the whole world for him made him 
almost fail in this purpose ; nor any longer 
for a while did he rejoice in the splendour 
of his spiritual visions, nor in the Gleam 
that had " waned to a wintry glimmer." 

Clouds and darkness 

Closed upon Camelot ; 

Arthur had vanish' d 

I knew not whither, 

The king who loved me. 

And cannot die. 
Here my father united the two Arthurs, 
the Arthur of the Idylls and the Arthur 
"the man he held as half divine." He 
himself had fought with death, and had 
come out victorious to find ' ' a stronger 
faith his own," and a hope for himself, 
for all those in sorrow and for universal 
humankind, that never forsook him through 
the future years. 

And broader and brighter 
■ The Gleam flying onward, 

Wed to the melody, 

Sang thro' the world. 

I saw, whenever 
In passing it glanced upon 
Hamlet or city, 
That under the Crosses 
The dead man's garden, 
The mortal hillock, 
Would break into blossom ; 
And so to the land's 
Last limit I came. 
Up to the end he faced death with the 
same earnest and unfailing courage that he 
had always shown, but with an added 
sense of the awe and the mystery of the 
Infinite, 

I can no longer. 
But die rejoicing. 
For thro' the Magic 
Of Him the Mighty, 
Who taught me in childhood, 
There on the border 
Of boundless Ocean, 
And all but in Heaven 
Hovers the Gleam. 
That is the reading of the poet's riddle 
as he gave it to me. He thought that 



NOTES 



1015 



Merlin and the Gleam would probably be 
enough of biography for those friends who 
urged him to write about himself. — Ed.] 

P. 869. Romney's Remorse. [First 
published in 1889.— Ed.] 

P. 871, col. I, line 21. With Milton's 
amaranth. 

' ' Lowly reverent 
Towards either throne they bow, and to 

the ground 
With solemn adoration down they cast 
Their crowns inwove with amarant and 

gold, 
Immortal amarant, a flower which once 
In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life, 
Began to bloom ; but, soon for Man's 

offence 
To Heaven removed where first it grew, 

there grows 
And flowers aloft, shading the Fount of 
Life, etc. 

Pa?'. Lost, iii. 349-357- 
P. 871, col. 2, line 25. my Indian 
brother. When his brother arrived from 
India, Romney did not know him. 

P. 872, col. I, line 5. He said it . . . 
in the play. Cf. Measure for Measure, 
III. i. 2 : 
" The miserable have no other medicine 

But only hope. ' ' 

P. 872. Parnassus. [First published 
in 1889. Norman Lockyer visited him in 
October 1890, and said of my father : 
" His mind is saturated with astronomy." 
—Ed.] 

P. 872. By an Evolutionist. 
[Written at Farringford, and first pub- 
lished in i88g. My father brought " Evolu- 
tion " into Poetry. Ever since his Cam- 
bridge days he believed in it. Andrew 
Lang notes : "It was part of the origin- 
ality of Tennyson, as a philosophic poet, 
that he had brooded from boyhood on 
these early theories of evolution, in an 
age when they were practically unknown 
to the literary, and were not patronised 
by the scientific world." He has given, 
perhaps, the best expression of this belief 
in a remarkable passage in Sea Dreams, 
beginning " But round the North, a 
light," p. 159. There we have a dream 
of the restless spirit of progress throughout 



the ages, and the ' ' note never out of tune " 
underlying it. — Ed.] 

P. 873. Far— FAR— away. (For 
Music. ) Before I could read I was in 
the habit on a stormy day of spreading 
my arms to the wind and crying out, 
" I hear a voice that's speaking in 
the wind," and the words "far, faraway" 
had always a strange charm for me. 
[First published in 1889. My father wrote 
this after his severe illness in 1888. As 
he was lying on his sofa in the window at 
Aldworth, and looking out on the great 
landscape of the weald of Sussex, he said 
that he had wonderful thoughts about God 
and the Universe, and felt as if looking 
into the other world. Distant bells always 
charmed him with their " lin-lan-lone," 
and when heard over a sea or a lake, he 
was never tired of listening to them. — Ed.] 

P. 873. Politics. [Addressed to Glad- 
stone, and first published in 1889, — Ed.] 

P. 873. Beautiful City. Paris. [First 
published in 1889. — Ed.] 

P. 874. The Roses ON THE Terrace. 
At Aldworth. [First published in 1889. 
About this time he sent the following lines 
to E. V. B. (Mrs. Richard Boyle) for her 
/?os Rosarum : 

THE ROSEBUD 

The night with sudden odour reel'd. 
The southern stars a music peal'd, 
Warm beams across the meadow stole ; 
For love flew over grove and field, 
Said, "Open, Rosebud, open, yield 
Thy fragrant soul." 

See also letter from my father to Dean 
Hole from Aldworth: "The Book of 
Roses was heartily welcomed by me : I do 
not worship the yellow but the Rosy Roses 
— rosy means red. not yellow — and the 
homage of my youth was given to what I 
must ever look up to as the Queen of 
Roses — the Provence — but then you as a 
great Rose master may not agree with me, 
I never see my Queen of Roses anywhere 
now. We have just been planting a garden 
of Roses, and were glad to find that out 
of our native wit we had associated the 
berberis with them as you advise." — Ed.]. 



ioi6 



NOTES 



P. 874. The Play, and On One who 

AFFECTED AN EFFEMINATE MANNER. 

[First published in 1889. — Ed.] 

P. 874. To One who ran down the 
English. [Written at Aldworth, and 
first published in 1889. — Ed.] 

P. 874. The Snowdrop. [Written 
at Farringford about i860, and first pub- 
lished in 1889.— Ed.] 

P. 874. The Throstle, [First pub- 
lished in the New Review, October 1889, 
and misprinted ; afterwards in Demeter 
and othe?- Poems, 1889. My father had 
been writing his poem, By an Evolidio7iist, 
between severe attacks of gout in the 
winter of 1889. He fed the thrushes and 
other birds as usual out of his window at 
Farringford. Toward the end of Feb- 
ruary he sat in his kitchen-garden summer- 
house, listening attentively to the different 
notes of the thrush, and finishing his song 
of The Throstle, which had been begun in 
the same garden years ago : 

Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 
And all the winters are hidden. 



Talking of hopefulness, he said : 
is the kiss of the Future." — Ed.] 



Hope 



P. 874. The Oak. [First published 
in 1889. My father called this poem 
"clean-cut like a Greek epigram." The 
allusion is to the gold of the young oak 
leaves in spring, and to the autumnal 
gold of the fading leaves (at Aldworth). — 
Ed.] 

P. 875. In Memoriam — W. G. Ward. 
[First published in The Aihen(S?im, May 
nth, 1889. Ward was a neighbour of 
my father's at Freshwater. He had been 
one of the leaders of the Oxford Movement, 
and afterwards of the Catholic Revival. 
He died in 1882. — Ed.] 

P. 876. June Bracken and Heather. 
[First published in 1892, written on Black- 
down, and dedicated to my mother. Cf. 
the poem my father addressed on his 
wedding-day to his old friend Drummond 
Rawnsley, the Vicar of Shiplake (June 13, 
1850), by whom they were married : 



TO THE VICAR OF SHIPLAKE 

\^icar of that pleasant spot. 

Where it was my chance to marry. 

Happy, happy be your lot 

In the Vicarage by the quarry : 

You were he that knit the knot. 

Sweetly, smoothly flow your life. 

Never parish feud perplex you, 
Tithe unpaid, or party strife. 

All things please you, nothing vex you ; 
You have given me such a wife. 

Have I seen in one so near 

Aught but sweetness aye prevailing ? 
Or, thro' more than half a year, 

Half the fraction of a failing ? 
Therefore bless you, Drummond dear. 

Good she is, and pure and just. 

Being conquer' d by her sweetness 
I shall come thro' her, I trust, 

Into fuller-orb' d completeness ; 
Tho' but made of erring dust. 

You, meanwhile, shall day by day 
Watch your standard roses blowing, 

And your three young things at play 
And your triple terrace growing 

Green and greener every May. 

Smoothly flow your life with Kate's,^ 
Glancing off from all things evil. 

Smooth as Thames below your gates, 
Thames along the silent level 

Streaming thro' his osier' d aits. 

Ed.] 

P. 876, line I. the down. Blackdown, 
on which Aldworth stands. 

P. 876. The Death of CEnone, 
[With Dedication to the Master of Balliol 
(Professor Jowett). First published in 
1892. Sir Richard Jebb wrote to me for 
my father's information : — 

Avg. 8, 1889. 

I had meant to write yesterday, but was in- 
terrupted. 

The principal extant source for the story of 
Paris and O^none is an epic poem called Tol 
ju-efl' 'O/ATipov (" Posthomerica "), by Quintus 
" Smyrnaeus," so called because he seems to 
have lived in or near Smyrna. (In old books 
you will find him called Quintus " Calaber," for 
no other reason than that the MS. by which his 
work first became known in modern times was 
found at Otranto in Calabria.) The idea of his 

1 Mrs. Drummond Rawnsley. 



NOTES 



1017 



epic is to continue the liurd, from the death 
of Achilles to the fall of Troy,— just as some of 
the older " Cyclic " poets had done. He wrote 
perhaps about 350-400 A.D., though some have 
assigned him to the fifth century. 

His epic is in fourteen books. The episode 
of CEnone occurs in Book X. Paris having been 
wounded by a poisoned arrow from the bow of 
Philoctetes, comes to CEnone, and makes a 
speech to her, to the eftect that he hopes she 
will forget his odious behaviour, and nurse him 
(284-305). She replies that she will see him 
somewhere first (308 - 327). He goes away- 
lamenting, and dies in the wilds of Ida. She 
hears of his death, and comes to his funeral 
pyre. When she sees the corpse, she utters no 
cry, but hides her face in her robe, and throws 
herself on the flames (467). Thus the whole 
story in Quintus occupies a little less than 200 
lines. He is an exceedingly feeble and frigid 
writer. 

Ed.] 

P. 87S. St. Telemachus. [First 
published in 1892. My father thought of 
also writing the story of St. Perpetua in 
verse as a companion poem. — Ed.] 

P. 878, line I. some fiery peak. These 
lines were suggested by the memory of the 
eruption of Krakatoa, between Java and 
Sumatra, when the volcanic dust was 
swirled round the earth and made the sun- 
sets extraordinarily brilliant. 

P. 878, col. 2, line 14. Vicisti Galilcee. 
[Julian, who restored the heathen worship 
and persecuted the Christians, is reported 
to have said these words when dying. 
—Ed.] 

P. 879, col. I, line 19. blood-red 
a%vni7ig. [The velarium, which shaded 
the spectators from the sun. — Ed. ] 

P. 880. Akbar's Dream. [First pub- 
lished in 1892. Sir Alfred Lyall writes : 
" The general conception of his (Akbar's) 
character and position is drawn in grand 
outline." — Ed.] 

P. 881, col. 2, hues 16-21. 

Sjohen creed and race 
Shall hear false witness, each of each, no 

more. 
But find their lijnits by that larger light, 
And overstep theiyi, moving easily 
Thro afte7--ages in the love of Truth, 
The truth of Love 

give my father's strong and deep feeling, 
that in the end Christianity without bigotry 
will triumph, when the controversies of 



creeds shall have vanished, and that "in 
the roll of the ages " the spirit of Christ 
will still grow from more to more. — Ed.] 

P. 882, col. I, line 16 to col. 2, line 5. 
And what atx forms ? 

Make but one music, harmonising ''Pray. " 
[My father said : "I dread the losing 
hold of forms. I have expressed this in my 
Akbar. There must be forms, yet I hate 
the need for so many sects and separate 
services. ' ' — Ed. ] 

P. 883. Hymn. [My father began 
this hymn to the sun in a new metre at 
Dulverton, and finished it on board Colonel 
Crozier's yacht, the Assegai, on his return 
voyage to the Isle of Wight. ' ' A magni- 
ficent metre," he said ; "I should like to 
write a long poem in it. " The philosophies 
of the East had a great fascination for him, 
and he felt that the Western rehgion might 
learn from them much of spiritualit}'. 

During one of the Bishop of Ripon's last 
visits my father said to him : ' ' Looked at 
from one pomt of view, I can understand 
the Persian dualism ; there is much which 
looks like the conflict of the powers of light 
and darkness." 

About that time he wrote the following 
sketch of an unpublished poem, Ormtizd 
and Ahriman : — 

' ' In the eternal day before the days 
were, the Almighty created Freewill in the 
two great spirits Ormuzd and Ahriman. 

' ' And these two came before the throne 
of the Almighty, and spoke to Him, say- 
ing, ' Thou hast shown thyself of Al- 
inightiness to make us free ; now therefore 
to be free is to act, how should we be idle.^' 

"And the Lord said to them, ' The ele- 
ments are in your hands. ' 

' ' And they answered and said, ' We will 
make the world.' 

"And the Lord said, 'One of you is 
dark, and one is bright, and ye will con- 
tend each against each, and your work will 
be evil. Ormuzd will put pleasure into that 
which he does, and Ahriman will put pain.' 

" And Ormuzd said, 'The pleasure will 
overbear the pain.' And Ahriman said, 
' The pain will overbear the pleasure. ' And 
the Lord said to Ahriman, ' Why wilt thou 
work against Ormuzd ? ' And Ahriman 



NOTES 



said, ' I know not, Thou hast made me.' 
And the Lord said, ' I know why I have 
made thee, but thou knowest not.' And 
the two went forth from before the Lord, 
and made the world." — Ed.] 

P. 885. The Bandit's Death. [First 
pubhshed in 1892. This story is taken from 
Sir Walter Scott's last Journal. My father 
said of him : ' ' Scott is the most chivalrous 
literary figure of this century, and the 
author with the widest range since Shake- 
speare." He would read two or three of 
his novels every year. Old Mortality he 
thought "his greatest novel." In his 
boyhood he wrote the following poem after 
reading The Bride of Lanunermoor, which 
he also ranked high : — 

THE BRIDAL 

The lamps were bright and gay 

On the merry bridal-day, 
When the merry bridegroom 

Bore the bride away ! 
A merry, merry bridal, 

A merry bridal-day ! 
And the chapel's vaulted gloom 

Was misted with perfume. 
"Now, tell me, mother, pray, 

Why the bride is white as clay, 
Although the merry bridegroom 

Bears the bride away. 
On a merry, merry bridal.. 

A merry bridal-day? 
And why her black eyes burn 

With a light so wild and stern ? " 
"They revel as they may," 

That skinny witch did say, 
" For — now the merry bridegroom 

Hath borne the bride away — 
Her thoughts have found their wings 

In the dreaming of past things : 
And though girt in glad array. 

Yet her own deep soul says nay : 
For tho' the merry bridegroom 

Hath borne the bride away, 
A dark form glances quick 

Thro' her worn brain, hot and sick." 
And so she said her say — 

This was her roundelay — 
That tho' the merry bridegroom 

Might lead the bride away, 
Dim grief did wait upon her, 

In glory and in honour. 



In the hall, at close of day. 

Did the people dance and play, 
For now the merry bridegroom 

Hath borne the bride away. 
He from the dance hath gone 

But the revel still goes on. 
Then a scream of wild dismay 

Thro' the deep hall forced its way, 
Altho' the merry bridegroom 

Hath borne the bride away ; 
And, staring as in a trance. 

They were shaken from the dance. — 
Then they found him where he lay 

Whom the wedded wife did slay, 
Tho' he a merry bridegroom 

Had borne the bride away, 
And they saw her standing by, 

With a laughing crazed eye. 
On the bitter, bitter bridal, 

The bitter bridal-day. Ed.] 

P.- 886. The Church-Warden and 
THE Curate. [First published in 1892. 
On June 23rd, 1890, I have an entry in 
my diary : ' ' Walked on the Common 
(Blackdown). My father is working at his 
Lincolnshire poem, The Church-u<arden, 
and laughed heartily at the humorous 
passages as he made them. " It was founded 
on two sayings which Canon Rawnsley 
told him. One of a " Lincolnshire Church- 
warden," who add^ressed him: "There's 
no daub (sham) about you, I know, Thou'lt 
be maain and plaain and straaight, I know, 
but hooiver, tek my advice, doant thou saay 
nowt to nobody for a year or more, but crip 
and crawl and git along under the hedge- 
bottoms for a bit, and they'll maake a 
bishop on ye yit. " The other, that of a 
Lincolnshire farmer who had lost a cow : 
' ' The poor thing was bound to die, drat 
it. I blaam them howry owd Baptises fur 
it all, coming and pizening my pond by 
leavin' their nasty owd sins behint them. 
It's nowt nobbut their dippin' as did it, we 
may be very sartain sewer." — Ed.] 

P. 888. Charity. [Founded on a true 
story. First published in 1892. — Ed.] 

P. 889. Kapiolani. [First published 
in 1892. My father read the story in 
Miss Yonge's Golden Deeds. — Ed.] 



NOTES 



1019 



Pp. 890 ff. The Dawn, The Making 
OF Man, The Dreamer, Faith, The 
Silent Voices, God and the Uni- 
verse. [This group of poems was 
written at the end of his Ufa, and first 
published in 1892. — Ed.] 

P. 891. Mechanophilus. [Written 
at the time of the first railways, and first 
published in 1892. — Ed.] 

P. 892. Riflemen form ! [First 
published in The Times, Aug. 9th, 1859, 
when it rang like a trumpet-call through 
the land. — Ed. ] 

P. 892. The Tourney. [One of the 
poems rejected from the songs of The 
Princess, and first published in 1892. — Ed.] 

P. 893, Poets and Critics. [First 
published in 1892. — Ed.] 

P, 893. A Voice spake out of the 
Skies. [First published in 1892. — Ed.] 

P. 893. Doubt and Prayer. [An 
early sonnet, altered and first published in 
1892. — Ed.] 

P. 893, col. 2, hne i. 
My Father, and my Brother, and my God! 

[My father's view of the Trinity of Love. 
—Ed.] 

P. 893. Faith. [My father said : 
"It is hard to believe in God ; but it is 
harder not to believe in God. My most 
passionate desire is to have a clearer and 
fuller vision of God." — Ed.] 

P. 893. The Silent Voices. [A 
melody in F minor, ^ written by my mother 
at my father's express desire, and arranged 
for four voices by Sir Frederick Bridge, 
was sung at his funeral in the Abbey. — Ed. ] 

P. 894. God and the Universe, 
[As he was dying on Oct. 5th, 1892, he 
exclaimed : "I have opened it. " Whether 
this referred to the Cymbeline opened by 
him at 

" Hang there like fruit, my soul. 

Till the tree die," 

1 See Appendix to Notes. 



which he always called among the tenderest 
lines in Shakespeare, or to the dirge in 
Cymbeline ; or whether these lines, which 
he often repeated, were running through 
his head, I cannot tell : 

Thro' the gates that bar the distance 

comes a gleam of what is higher. 
Wait till Death has flung them open ; 

and 

Fear not thou the hidden purpose of that 

Power which alone is great, 
Nor the myriad world, His shadow, nor 

the silent Opener of the Gate. 

Ed.] 

P. 894, The Death of the Duke 
OF Clarence and Avondale. [First 
published in The Nineteenth Century, 
February 1892. This poem began to 
bring on my father's final illness, as he 
worked feeling tired. He wrote it at that 
time, so as to bring some comfort to the 
poor mother. He wanted G. F. Watts 
to paint this great picture — 

The face of Death is toward the Sun of 
Life, 
His shadow darkens earth. 

He sent the poem, with the following letter, 
to Queen Victoria : — 

RIadam — I venture to write, but I do not know 
how to express the profound sympathy of myself 
and my family with the great sorrow which has 
befallen your Majesty and j^our children. I 
know that your Majesty has a perfect trust in the 
Love and Wisdom which order the circumstances 
of our life, and in this alone is there comfort. — I 
am always your Majesty's affectionate servant, 
Tennyson. 
Ed.] 

P. 894. Crossing the Bar. [Made 
in my father's eighty-first year, in October 
1889, on crossing the Solent after his 
serious illness in 1888-9. When he re- 
peated it to me in the evening, I said, 
"That is the crown of your hfe's work." 
He answered, " It came in a moment." — 
Ed.] 

P. 894. Verse iv. 

/ hope to see my Pilot face to face. 

The pilot has been on board all the while, 
but in the dark I have not seen him. 

[We now know the pilot only by faith — 



NOTES 



M'e shall then see him face to face. My 
father had often watched the pilots from 
Southampton Water climb down from the 
great mail-ships into their cutters off 
Headon Hill, near the Needles. 

He explained the Pilot as ' ' that Divine 
and Unseen Who is always guiding us." 
A few days before his death he said to me, 
' ' Mind you put my Crossing the Bar at 
the end of all editions of my poems." This 
poem. Merlin and the Gleam, The Death 
of the Duke of Clarence, The Dawn, The 
Making of Man, The Dreamer (expressive 



of Hope in the Light that leads us). The 
Watiderer, A Voice spake out of the Skies, 
Doubt and Prayer, Faith, God and the 
Universe, and The Silent Voices, breath- 
ing peace and courage and hope and faith, 
were felt by my father, when he wrote them, 
to be his last testament to the world. — Ed.] 



" Poetry," my father wrote, " should be 
the flower and fruit of a man's life, in 
whatever stage of it, to be a worthy offer- 
ing to the world." 



APPENDIX TO NOTES 

Zhc Silent Voices 

BY 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

MUSIC BY 

EMILY, LADY TENNYSON 



ARRANGED FOR FOUR VOICES FOR 

Zhc ^funeral ot XorD tlenn^son 

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, OCTOBER 12, 1892 

BY 

J. FREDERICK BRIDGE, Mus.D. 



APPENDIX TO NOTES 



Z\)t Silent IDotces 



Words by Lord Tennyson. 

Sloicly and with solemnity, 
inf. 



Music by Lady Tennyson. 



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I024 APPENDIX TO N07ES 



The following is one of my father's later poems, and was by inadvertence 
never published by him : — 

RETICENCE 

Not to Silence would I build 
A temple in her naked field ; 
Not to her would raise a shrine : 
She no goddess is of mine ; 
But to one of finer sense, 
Her half sister, Reticence. 
Latest of her worshippers, 

I would shrine her in my verse ! 
Not like Silence shall she stand, 
Finger-Hpt, but with right hand 
Moving toward her lip, and there 
Hovering, thoughtful, poised in air. 
Her garment slips, the" left hand holds 
Her up-gather'd garment folds. 
And veils a breast more fair to me 
Than aught of Anadyomen^ ! 
Near the shrine, but half in sun, 
I would have a river run, 
Such as never overflows 
With flush of rain, or molten snows. 
Often shallow, pierced with light, 
Often deep beyond the sight, 
Here and there about the lawn 
Wholly mute, but ever drawn 
Under either grassy brink 
In many a silver loop and link 
Variously from its far spring. 
With long tracts of murmuring, 
Partly river, partly brook, 
WTiich in one delicious nook. 
Where the doubtful shadows play, 
Lightly lisping, breaks away ; 
Thence, across the summit hurl'd. 
Showers in a whisper o'er the world. 



ir4 ir>if %/w k r^ Hr^trur^ ^ /U ^o*-, 

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3 U 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



A city clerk, but gently born and bred, 156. 
Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom'd with 

woe, 874. 
Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme, 237. 
Airy, fairy Lilian, 6. 
All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 

235- 
Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 85. 
And Willy, my eldest -born, is gone, you say, 

little Anne? 225. 
A plague upon the people fell, 238. 
Are you sleeping? have you forgotten? do not 

sleep, my sister dear ! 552. 
A spirit haunts the year's last hours, 13. 
A still small voice spake unto me, 30. 
A storm was coming, but the winds were still, 3*80. 
As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood, 

25- _ 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville 

lay, 507. 
At Francis Allen's on the Christmas Eve, 67. 
Athelstan King, 534. 

A thousand summers ere the time of Christ, 547. 
At times our Britain cannot rest, 842. 
A Voice spake out of the skies, 893. 



Banner of England, not for a season, O banner 

of Britain, hast thou, 519. 
' Beat, little heart — I give you this and this,' 869. 
Beautiful city, the centre and crater, 873. 
Below the thunders of the upper deep, 6. 
Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn, 778. 
Break, break, break, 124. 
Brooks, for they call'd you so that knew you 

best, 533. 
Bury the Great Duke, 218. 

Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand, 26. 
Chains, my good lord : in your raised brows I 

read, 525. 
Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, 8. 
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing, 3. 
Come not, when I am dead, 119. 



Come, when no graver cares employ, 234. 
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis 

early morn, 98. 
' Courage ! ' he said, and pointed toward the land, 

54- 

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood, 

_443-_ 
Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? 

237- 
Dead ! 571. 
Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which lived, 

Dear Master in our classic town, 876. 
Dear, near and true — no truer Time himself, 240. 
Deep on the convent-roof the snows, 109. 
Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters 

awaiiy? 231. 
Doubt no longer that the Highest is the wisest 

and the best, 893. 
Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust, our pride, 

142. 

Eh ? good daily ! good daay ! thaw it bean't not 

mooch of a daaj-, 886. 
Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, 395. 
Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed, 6. 

Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies, 844. 
Fair is her cottage in its place, 236. 
Fair things are slow to fade awaj% 844. 
Farewell, Macready, since to-night we part, 578. 
Farewell, whose living like I shall not find, 875. 
Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded, 843. 
F irst pledge our Queen this solemn night, 575. 
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 119. 
Flower in the crannied wall, 240. 
From nolseful arms, and acts of prowess done, 418. 
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 62. 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, 

239- 
Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with mine, 

499. 



1027 



I028 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



Had the fierce ashes of some fiery peak, 840. 

Haifa league, half a league, 222. 

Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 533. 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands, \ig. 

' He is fled — I wish him dead — , 859. 

Helen's Tower, here I stand, 574. 

Her arms across her breast she laid, 119. 

Her, that yer Honour was spakin' to? Whin, 

yer Honour? last year, 555. 
Here, by this brook, we parted ; I to the East, 

139- 
Here far away, seen from the topmost cliff, 476. 
Here, it is here, the close of the year, 237. 
He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 236. 
He that only rules by terror, 115. 
He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, 26. 
Hide me. Mother ! my Fathers belong'd to the 

church of old, 541. 
How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, 26. 

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 44. 

If I were loved, as I desire to be, 27. 

I had a vision when the night was late, 120. 

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
286. 

I knew an old wife lean and poor, 66. 

I know her by her angry air, 24. 

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls, 124. 

I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look, 
81. 

In her ear he whispers gaily, 116. 

I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 56. 

I see the wealthy miller yet, 36. 

I send you here a sort of allegory, 44. 

Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel there look- 
ing over the sand? 544. 

It little profits that an idle king, 95. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 114. 

I waited for the train at Coventry, 103. 

I was the chief of the race— he had stricken my 
father dead, 529. 

I wish I were as in the years of old, 538. 

King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap, 433. 
King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and 
grown, 537. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 49. 

Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I 

paced these sandy tracts, 560. 
Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 309. 
Life and thought have gone away, 15. 
' Light of the nations' ask'd his Chronicler, 880. 
Like souls that balance joy and pain, 118. 
Live thy Life, 874. 
Lo ! there once more — this is the seventh night 

653- 
Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm, 125. 



Love thou thy land, with love far-brought, 64. 
Low -flowing breezes are roaming the broad 

valley dimm'd in the gloaming, 3. 
Lucilia, wedded to Lucretius, found, 161. 

Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after 

many a vanish 'd face, 850. 
Many, many welcomes, 874. 
Mellow moon of heaven, 851. 
Midnight— in no midsummer tune, 573. 
Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it mun be the 

time about now, 557. 
Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free, 25. 
Minnie and Winnie, 237. 
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave, 119. 
My father left a park to me, 108. 
My friend should meet me somewhere hereabout, 

521. 
My good blade carves the casques of men, no. 
My heart is wasted with my woe, 17. 
My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be, 25. 
My life is full of weary days, 24. 
My Lords, we heard you speak : you told us all, 

22,1. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 22. 
Mystery of mysteries, 20. 

Naay, noa mander o' use to be callin' 'im Roa, 

Roa, Roa, 847. 
Nature, so far as in her lies, 63. 
Nightingales warbled without, 235. 
Not here ! the white North has thy bones ; and 

thou, 537. 
Not this way will you set your name, 569. 
Now first we stand and understand, 891. 
Now is done thy long day's work, 16. 

O blackbird ! sing me something well, 61. 

O bridesmaid, ere the happy knot was tied, 27. 

CEnone sat within the cave from out, 876. 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 92. 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 64. 

O God ! my God ! have mercy now, 3. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak, 104. 

Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange, 537. 

Old poets foster'd under friendlier skies, 578. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! 39. 

O love, what hours were thine and mine, 233. 

O loyal to the royal in thyself, 474. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 83. 

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, 243. 

On a midnight in midwinter when all but the 

winds were dead, 891. 
Once in a golden hour, 235. 
Once more the gate behind me falls, 88. 
Once more the Heavenly Power, 573. 
On either side the river lie, 27. 
O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know, 575. 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



1029 



O plump head-waiter at The Cock, iii. 

O purblind race of miserable men, 354. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 21. 

O thou so fair in summers gone, 575. 

O thou, that sendest out the man, 66. 

Our birches yellowing and from each, 568. 

Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had 

seen him before, 517. 
'Ouse-keeper sent tha my lass, fur New Squire 

coom'd last night, 514. 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, 532. 
O well for him whose will is strong ! 235. 
O you chorus of indolent reviewers, 243. 
O young Mariner, 867. 
O you that were eyes and light to the King till 

he passed away, 537. 

Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot, 

369- 
Pine, beech and plane, oak, walnut, apricot, 750. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat, 
456. 

Ralph would fight in Edith's sight, 892. 
Red of the Dawn ! 890. 
Revered, beloved — O you that hold, i. 
Roman Virgil, thou that singest, 570. 
Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago, 874. 
Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione 
row ! 574. 

Sea-Kings' daughter from over the sea, 223. 

Sir, do you see this dagger? nay, why do you 

start aside? 885. 
Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day, 165. 
Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 15. 
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd, 68. 
So Hector spake; the Trojans roar'd applause, 243. 
So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away, 536. 
So, my lord, the Lady Giovanna, who hath been 

away, 767. 
So then our good Archbishop Theobald, 693. 
' Spring-flowers ' 1 While you still delay to take, 

864. 
Stand back, keep a clear lane I 579. 
Still on the tower stood the vane, 120. 
Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 247. 
' Summer is coming, summer is coming, 874. 
Sunset and evening star, 894. 
Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town, iii. 

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 467. 
The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, 

341- 
The bridal garland falls upon the bier, 894. 
'The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a 

room, 79. 



The charge of the gallant three hundred, the 

Heavy Brigade ! 568. 
The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 27. 
The gleam of household sunshine ends, 892. 
The groundflame of the crocus breaks the 

mould, 865. 
The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 317. 
The lights and shadows fly ! 244. 
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a 

man, 872. 
The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 16. 
The poet in a golden clime was born, 13. 
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 124. 
There is a sound of thunder afar, 892. 
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier, 40. 
There on the top of the down, 876. 
These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music 

of Homer ! 243. 
These roses for my Lady Marian, 804. 
These toHis Memory — since he held them dear,3o8 
The Son of him with whom we strove for power, 

224. 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills 

and the plains, 239. 
The voice and the Peak, 240. 
The winds, as at their hour of birth, 6. 
The wind, that beats the mountain, blows, 62. 
The woods decaj', the woods decay and fall, 96. 
They have left the doors ajar ; and by their clash, 

509- 
They rose to where their sovTan eagle sails, 533. 
This morning is the morning of the day, 72. 
This thing, that thing is the rage, 893. 
Those that of late had fleeted far and fast, 533. 
Tho' Sin too oft, when smitten by Thy rod, 893. 
Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, 8. 
Thou third great Canning, stand among our best, 

574- 
Thou who stealest fire, 11. 
Thy dark eyes open'd not, 22. 
Thy prayer was ' Light — more Light — while 

Time shall last ! ' 575. 
Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, 9. 
Two children in two neighbour villages, 18. 
Two Suns of Love make day of human life, 576. 

Ulj'sses, much-experienced man, 863. 
Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet, 223. 

Vex not thou the poet's mind, 14. 

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, 534. 

Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' 

sights to tell, 504. 
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and 

sea, 501. 
'Wait a little,' you say, ' you are sure it'll all 

come right,' 499. 



1030 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast, 27. 
Warrior of God, man's friend, and tyrant's foe, 

574- 
Warrior of God, whose strong right arm debased, 

26. 
We left behind the painted buoy, 117. 
Welcome, welcome, with one voice ! 577. 
Well, you shall have that song which Leonard 

wrote, 94. 
We move, the wheel must alwaj^s move, 873. 
We were two daughters of one race, 44. 
What am I doing, you say to me, ' wasting the 

sweet summer hours ' ? 888. 
What be those crown'd forms high over the sacred 

fountain? 872. 
What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew, 

873; 
What time the mighty moon was gathering light, 

17- 
Wheer asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere 

aloan? 228. 
When cats run home and light is come, 9. 
When from the terrors of Nature a people have 

fashion'd and worship a Spirit of Evil, 889. 
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free, 9. 
When the dumb Hour, clothed in black, 893. 



When will the stream be aweary of flowing, 2. 

Where Claribel low-lieth, 2. 

Where is one that, born of woman, altogether can 

escape, 890. 
While about the shore of Mona those Neronian 

legionaries, 241. 
While man and woman still are incomplete, 874. 
' Whither, O whither, love, shall we go, 236. 
Who would be, 19. 
Who would be, 19. 
Why wail you, pretty plover? and what is it 

that you fear ? 860. 
Will my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your 

deeps and heights? 894. 
With a half-glance upon the sky, 13. 
With blackest moss the flower-plots, 7. 
With farmer Allan at the farm abode, 77. 
With one black shadow at its feet, 30. 

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 64. 

You make our faults too gross, and thence main- 
tain, 874. 

You might have won the Poet's name, 123. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear, 50. 

You, you, ^you shall fail to understand, 577. 



INDEX TO 'IN MEMORIAM 

p. 247. 



Again at Christmas did we weave . Ixxviii 

A happy lover who has come . . . viii 

And all is well, tho' faith and form . cxxvii 

And was the day of my delight . . xxiv 

As sometimes in a dead man's face . Ixxiv 

Be near me when my light is low . . 1 

By night we linger 'd on the lawn . . xcv 

Calm is the morn without a sound . . xi 

Contemplate all this work of Time . cxviii 

Could I have said while he was here . Ixxxi 

Could we forget the widow'd hour . xl 

Dark house, by which once more I stand vii 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire . cxxix 

Dip down upon the northern shore . Ixxxiii 

Doors, where my heart was used to beat cxix 

Dost thou look back on what hath been Ixiv 

Do we indeed desire the dead . . li 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore . ix 

From art, from nature, from the schools xlix 

Heart-affluence in discursive talk . . cix 

He past ; a soul of nobler tone . . Ix 

He tasted love with half his mind . . xc 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer . xxxii 

High wisdom holds my wisdom less . cxii 

How fares it with the happy dead ? . xliv 

How many a father have I seen . . liii 

How pure at heart and sound in head . xciv 

I cannot love thee as I ought ... lii 

I cannot see the features right . . Ixx 

I climb the hill : from end to end . . c 
I dream'd there would be Spring no more Ixix 

I envy not in any moods . . . xxvii 

If any vague desire should rise . . Ixxx 

If any vision should reveal . . . xcii 

If, In thy second state sublime . . Ixi 

If one should bring me this report . . xiv 

If Sleep and Death be truly one . . xliii 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born . . xlviii 

I he.ir the noise about thy keel . . x 

I held it truth, with him who sings . i 



I know that this was Life— the track 
I leave thy praises unexpress'd 
In those sad words I took farewell 
I past beside the reverend walls 
Is it, then, regret for buried time 
I shall not see thee. Dare I say 
I sing to him that rests below 
I sometimes hold it half a sin . 
It is the day when he was born 
I trust I have not wasted breath 
I vex my heart with fancies dim 
I wage not any feud with Death 
I will not shut me from my kind 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
Love is and was my Lord and King 

' More than my brothers are to me ' 
My love has talk'd with rocks and trees 
My own dim life should teach me this 

Now fades the last long streak of snow 
Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut 

O days and hours, your work is this 

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 

Old warder of these buried bones . 

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 

O living will that shalt endure 

One writes, that ' Other friends remain 

On that last night before we went . 

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me . 

O thou that after toil and storm 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky 
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again 
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 
Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
' So careful of the type ? ' but no 
So many worlds, so much to do 



XXV 

Ixxv 
Iviii 
Ixxxvii 
cxvi 
xciii 
xxi 

V 

evil 
cxx 
xlii 
Ixxxii 
cviii 

xii 
cxxvi 

Ixxix 
xcvii 
xxxiv 

cxv 
xxiii 

cxvii 

cxxii 

liv 

xxxix 

ii 

cxxxi 

vi 



lix 



Ivii 



cvi 
Ixxii 



cxxi 

Ixxi 

Ivi 

Ixxiii 



INDEX TO 'IN MEMO RI AM' 



Still onward winds the dreary way . xxvi 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air . Ixxxvi 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt . Ixv 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend . . Ixxvi 

Tears of the widower, when he sees . xiii 

That each, who seems a separate whole xlvii 

That which we dare invoke to bless . cxxiv 

The baby new to earth and sky . . xlv 

The churl in spirit, up or down . . cxi 

The Danube to the Severn gave . . xix 

The lesser griefs that may be said . . xx 

The love that rose on stronger wings . cxxviii 

The path by which we twain did go . xxii 

There rolls the deep where grew the tree cxxiii 

The time draws near the birth of Christ xxviii 

The time draws near the birth of Christ civ 

The wish, that of the living whole . Iv 

This truth came borne with bier and pall Ixxxv 
Thou comest, much wept for : such a 

breeze xvii 

Tho' if an eye that's downward cast . Ixii 

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join . xxxvi 

Thy converse drew us with delight . ex 

Thy spirit ere our fatal loss ... xli 

Thy voice is on the rolling air . . cxxx 

'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise . cxiii 

'Tis well ; 'tis something ; we may stand xvili 

To-night the winds begin to rise . . xv 



To-night ungather'd let us leave . 
To Sleep I give my powers away . 

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall 

sway 

Urania speaks with darken'd brow 

We leave the well-beloved place . 
We ranging down this lower track 
Whatever I have said or sung 
What hope is here for modern rhyme 
What words are these have fall'n from 



When I contemplate all alone 
When in the down I sink my head 
When Lazarus left his charnel-cave 
When on my bed the moonlight falls 
When rosy plumelets tuft the larch 
Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall 



rail 



Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet 
Witch-elms that counterchange the floor 
With such compelling cause to grieve 
With trembling fingers did we weave 
With weary steps I loiter on . 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven 
You leave us : you will see the Rhine 
You say, but with no touch of scorn 
You thought my heart too far diseased 



xxxvn 

cii 

xlvi 

cxxv 

Ixxvii 



xvi 

Ixxxiv 

Ixviii 

xxxi 

Ixvii 

xci 

cxiv 

Ixxxviii 

Ixxxix 

xxix 

XXX 

xxxviii 

XXXV 

Ixiii 

xcviii 

xcvi 

Ixvi 



INDEX TO SONGS 



A rose, but one, none other rose had I, 439. 

Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, 760. 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea, 

210. 
As thro' the land at eve we went, 173. 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bend the brier, 455. 

Babble in bower, 725. 

Beat upon mine, little heart ! beat, beat ! 871. 

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May, 

316. 
By all the deer that spring, 828. 



Come down, 
height, 2 



O maid, from yonder mountain 
3- 



Dead mountain flowers, 772. 

Free love — free field — we love but while we 
may, 447. 

Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop, whoa ! 790. 

Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing ! 

643. 
His friends would praise him, I believed 'em, 

594- 
Home they brought her warrior dead, 204. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 139. 

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, 386. 

Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the 

pine overhead ? 715. 
It is the miller's daughter, 38. 

Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and 

chill ! 458. 
Long live Richard, 808. 
Love flew in at the window, 806. 
Love that hath us in the net, 39. 

Mellow moon of heaven, 851. 
Moon on the field and the foam, 753. 



Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, 

213. 
Now the King is home again, 841. 

O diviner Air, 509. 

O diviner light, 509. 

O happy lark, that warblest high, 796. 

O joy for the promise of May, of May, 786. 

O man, forgive thy mortal foe, 794. 

O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 40. 

Once again thou flamest heavenward, 883. 

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 187. 

Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the seed, 

204. 
Over ! the sweet summer closes, 697. 

Rainbow, stay, 727. 

Shame upon you, Robin, 620. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me, 80. 
Sweet and low, 180. 

Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain, 
412. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 

186. 
The bee buzz'd up in the heat, 829. 
There is no land like England, 813. 
The splendour falls on castle walls, 186. 
The town lay still in the low sun-light, 778. 
The warrior Earl of Allendale. 804. 
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 195. 
To sleep ! to sleep ! The long bright day is 

done, 812. 
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the 

proud, 346. 
Two young lovers in winter weather, 675. 

Up with you, out of the forest, 823. 

We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things 

move, 94. 
What did ye do, and what did ye saay, 788. 
What does little birdie say, 160. 



1033 



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